Hooligan
by thablackkuririn
Summary: Abused by the Dursleys and demonised by everyone in Little Whinging, Harry finally snaps. His retaliation lands him in St. Brutus' Secure Center for Incurably Criminal Boys. Four years later, a very different Harry is introduced to the wizarding world.
1. The Boy Who Snapped

wwtMask (a.k.a. thablackkuririn) presents

**Hooligan**

Disclaimer: This chapter is inspired by the events of Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone, chapters 1 and 2.

**Chapter 1 – The Boy Who Snapped**

Little Whinging, a small village on the outskirts of Surrey, was a community that prided itself on its utter normality. The houses were all of a good size and all looked more or less the same. The yards were all neatly manicured, the cars all late model and spotless. Everything was quite routine, down to the time when husbands left for work, children left for school, and wives left for the market. Yes, everyone in Little Whinging was absolutely, without a doubt, completely and utterly normal.

Everyone, that is, except Harry Potter. Whatever anyone thought they knew about him, one thing was certain; Little Whinging had become less and less normal since he'd arrived. In fact, the only thing that was actually normal about the boy was how much of a little hooligan he'd turned out to be. His abnormality even seemed to have rubbed off on his relatives, Vernon and Petunia Dursley and their son Dudley. Instead of being properly ashamed of having raised such a troublemaker, they instead were almost beside themselves that their nephew was such a bad egg. It certainly seemed to be the only thing they would talk about, how he was worthless and would turn out to be like his alcoholic parents, dead in a car crash.

Since his arrival, everyone started noticing that some children were less respectful. Several years on, a few boys even started a gang that vandalized property and terrorized younger children, and the residents were sure that they'd been inspired by the five year old Harry Potter. When a few of the boys were caught breaking into houses, they eventually even admitted as much, proving the fears of many people. When the boys had been sent off to reform school, it had angered an awful lot of people that Harry, too, wasn't sent as well, even if he didn't really do anything. To them, the fact that he was there at all, corrupting children who would otherwise be angels, was enough to sentence him. As the years passed, many hateful and suspicious eyes watched Harry's every move.

And what was young Harry to think or to do about this? After four years of living with the Dursleys, he still couldn't figure out why they hated him. Near as he could tell, they did so simply because he dared to exist. He'd long ago given up trying to gain their favor or love, since it was obvious that nothing he did could ever be right in their eyes. Instead, he nurtured an intense hatred for his relatives, who abused him physically and emotionally, and for his faceless parents, who stupidly got themselves killed and left him with the Dursleys. He was eager and hopeful that he'd find someone, anyone to care about him outside of his family. When it became clear that the Dursleys had poisoned everyone against him, though, he simply learned to hate everyone else too.

That year, Harry started primary school and even though he tried to be friendly, no one would be his friend. If they weren't scared of his reputation or forbidden to associate with him by their parents, they were afraid of Dudley and his gang. Ironically, everyone had it all wrong; it was Dudley, not Harry, who was the trouble making hooligan. By the time this became apparent, it was already too late to fix the damage to Harry's reputation. His life was without love or happiness or friendship. All he could count on was drudgery and abuse and, most of all, his simmering hate.

Nearly two years had passed since the Little Whinging gang had been caught and broken up. Harry's life hadn't changed very much. He still slept in the cramped cupboard under the stairs and was worked like a slave and constantly abused by the Dursleys. He was still bullied and beaten by Dudley and his gang. He was still shunned, feared, and looked down upon by everyone else. He'd grown a bit, despite being grossly underfed, and had gone up a couple of grades, despite a bare minimum effort in school. What had definitely changed, though, was how much hated the Dursleys. Over the years, he'd gone from dislike to general loathing to constantly thinking of harming them. He always told himself that he'd never do it, of course, but the thoughts gave him the only comfort available. Still, the knowledge that he'd never have the courage to follow through intensified his hate until it hurt to much to hold onto any more.

Harry Potter awoke one Wednesday morning in early spring with a most unexpected expression on his face; he was smiling. Not even Vernon's threat to "wipe the smile off his face" nor the very real backhand across his face to do so could take it away. In truth, it was more of a leer, an unsettling expression that made Vernon and Petunia uneasy. Harry was never happy and never had a reason to be; they made sure of that. Normally, things that made Harry happy made them angry. This day, his aunt and uncle couldn't help but feel an unreasonable, nagging worry.

No one dared ask Harry what he was so happy about, even if almost everyone, including the teachers, noticed his smile. Some didn't really care, but most were simply afraid of what could possibly make him happy. Although the rumors about how dangerous he was had gone on for years, only recently had they seemed to ring true. The school had been vandalized, things had been stolen, and students were being beaten up. While all signs pointed to him, Harry had avoided trouble because no one had seen anything, nor would any victim talk, and he steadfastly proclaimed his innocence. That morning, he knew that everyone was watching and waiting for him to do something that they could prove. This thought made him smile even wider.

At lunch, Harry's cousin, Dudley, and his gang of friends, decided to have a little fun with Harry. They'd heard the stories about Harry but, having beat him up for years, they weren't worried. Neither, it seems, was Harry, who continued smiling at them as they stalked across the school yard towards him. He turned around and headed towards a group of kindergarten kids who were playing a game of cricket with a small plastic bat. Seeing Harry, the kids shrieked and scattered, dropping the ball and the bat. Harry's smile never waned as he quickly picked up the undersized and lightweight bat.

"Hey, freak! What're you smiling about?" Dudley asked. His friends snickered appreciatively. Harry, however, did not answer. "You'd better forget about whatever it is before I wipe that smile off your face."

Harry still didn't answer. In fact, he didn't even move. "Hey Dudley, lookit, he's got that little whiffle bat. That's real scary, right boys?" said Piers Polkiss, Dudley's right hand man. The other boys guffawed loudly. Harry still said nothing and remained facing away from them, much to their annoyance. Normally, he would've run at this point. Behind him, Dudley's gang egged their leader on. Dudley was only too happy to oblige them.

"What're you gonna do, freak?" Dudley said maliciously, grabbing his cousin's shoulder with a meaty hand. "You gonna hit-"

With a swift move, Harry twisted out of Dudley's grip, turned, and smashed him on the side of his face with the cricket bat. It hit with an unexpectedly sickening crunch that stunned everyone. Dudley's eyes went wide and, due to the blow, one almost literally popped out. A scream seemed to catch in his throat before he crumpled to the ground, blood oozing from his ear, nose, and eye.

The other three boys stood dumbstruck, and this is probably why Harry was able to dispatch them without too much fuss. The second swing hit the nearest boy square in his face and sent him stumbling backwards, spraying blood and teeth from his mouth. The third swing of the bat shattered another boy's kneecap, sending him falling forward and giving Harry a great opening for an upward shot that shattered his jaw. The last boy, the ratty looking Piers, raised his hands to defend his face, so Harry gladly slammed his foot into the boy's crotch. The hands now fallen, Harry whacked the boy across the face as hard as he could.

"How d'you like that, Duddy!" Harry yelled, kicking his cousin hard in the ribs. "Did I wipe the smile off your fat face, huh!"

He fell to kicking and hitting the fallen boys, yelling incoherently. Harry didn't realize he was crying until his sight started to blur. His heart seemed to be beating so loud that it was the only thing he could hear. He continued flailing away until someone grabbed him. They roughly pulled him away and shoved him to the ground.

Harry sat there in the dirt, staring at his hands. They were trembling and there were flecks of blood on them. He held the small plastic bat in a white knuckle grip and stared at it. Blood and hair mingled on one side, creating a sickening veneer that he couldn't stop staring at, even while it turned his stomach. The smile had long since disappeared from his face, replaced by a look of blank shock.

Someone yanked him to his feet by his collar and wrenched the plastic bat from his hand. He vaguely heard someone yelling, but he didn't hear what they were saying. Years in the Dursley household had made him a master at ignoring angry, yelling people. A teacher dragged him towards the school. The man's grip dug uncomfortably into his wrist, but Harry didn't complain. Eventually, they stopped at the headmaster's office, where he was forced into a chair.

Several people came and went, but Harry hardly noticed or even heard them. He could only think of what had just happened, what he'd done. He felt so tired that he wished he could just sleep and forget about everything that had happened. He wished that everyone would leave him alone, and wondered if wishing would work again. Harry didn't snap out of his reverie until he saw the policeman standing over him. For the first time, Harry was afraid.

"Come on, son." the man said gently, lifting him from the chair by his arm. "We're just going to take a little ride."

Harry looked around wildly for some kind of escape but, as with so many things in his life, he was disappointed. The headmaster and several teachers were all in the room, their expressions a mix of pity, revulsion, and regret, but none of them looked surprised in the least. The last person in the room glared at Harry with the utmost hate and seemed to be only just restraining himself. "You'll pay for this, boy!" he hissed threateningly, his face purple with anger.

Harry stared blankly back, his hate for the man and his family filling his heart and slowly pushing away any remorse he'd been feeling. He never took his eyes away as the policeman walked him out of the room. As he passed his seething uncle, he smirked at him hatefully, enjoying the intense anger that it seemed to inspire. He didn't know it then, but it would be one of the few times he would feel anything close to happiness for several years.

**To Be Continued...in Chapter 2: The Boy Who Went Bad**

**Author's Notes**

Well, there you have it, the first of hopefully many chapters in this fic. This idea's been beating around in my head for a while, inspired in part by a half dozen Independent!Harry stories I've read. I just thought that it would be interesting if St. Brute's was actually a real reform school for the worst of juvenile offenders and wondered what Harry would be like if he spent some of his formative years amongst such people. I hope the title of this fic is a good hint as to the results.

I'm using this fic as a writing experiment. I have absolutely no plans for this story beyond presenting the events from the books to this new Harry. How the story plays out will rely entirely on Harry as I've recreated him and the reactions of the other unchanged characters to him. The general idea is to see if I can actually write hooligan Harry in his own voice and not my own. This has been a real problem in my writing up to this point. I won't make any promises on the frequency of updates, especially since I have another fic (Might and Magic) that's higher priority. That said, I'm about 1/3rd of the way through chapter 2 and expect to make more progress while this story remains at the front of my mind. And, no, this chapter is not representative of the average size of the following chapters. Brevity isn't my strong point.

If you get a chance, send a review my way, I'd love to hear what anyone thinks about this story. I'll also be creating a forum to pass along info, answer questions, and take suggestions on this story. Thanks for reading!


	2. Domestic Violence

**Hooligan**

Disclaimer: This chapter is inspired by the events of Harry Potter and the Philosophers Stone.

A warning: This chapter contains scenes of extreme violence and abuse.

**Chapter 2 – Domestic Violence**

The train station was uncomfortably stifling, thanks to the large crowds of boarding school students returning to London and an early heat wave that had the city sweltering. One person, though, hardly seemed to notice the heat at all, his long sleeved sweatshirt and ratty blue jeans notwithstanding. Harry Potter scanned the throng with an ugly scowl on his face. Despite standing still in the middle of a crowded causeway, the boy was not so much as bumped by any passersby. Though he couldn't have been more than nine or ten years old, he had the rough and shifty look of a young hooligan and no one wanted to get too close. He smirked at their skittishness, an almost predatory glint playing across his green eyes. Years ago, he might've been upset by the unease he inspired, but now he rather enjoyed it. Harry Potter had changed quite a bit.

Some things about Harry had never quite changed. He was still rather short for his age and he still wore taped up glasses. His black hair was as unruly as ever, his clothes were as poor as they'd always been, and his forehead was still marred by that strange, lightning bolt shaped scar. Now, though, the scar didn't stand out nearly so much, having been joined by several equally impressive scars on his face and neck. Before, his clothing, hand me downs from his fat cousin, had been far too large, but now nothing he wore was quite large enough to fit. As for his hair, he'd shaved it off on the sides and back of his head, leaving only a spiky mop on the top. His glasses were now more tape than plastic from years of abuse, with one lens was cracked down the middle. And while he certainly was short, there was no doubt that he was well built, his body looking roughly three years older than his nearly eleven years. The only thing that gave away his age was his face which, despite it's hardened aspects, still looked rather young. In all, for a boy his age, Harry cut a rather imposing figure. He had a look that people would sneer at from afar but, when drawing closer to him, would make them look away and hurry past.

These, of course, were just the most apparent changes, the ones that anyone who'd known Harry before could see. These same people, the people of Little Whinging, were not exactly surprised at all. If anything, it only reaffirmed what they'd known all along, that the Potter boy was an unrepentant hooligan. Harry agreed with them completely. After all, spending four long years at St. Brutus' Secure Center for Incurably Criminal Boys was bound to turn anyone into a hooligan, and likely much worse. He thought it was rather ironic that he'd had to go to the worst reform school in Britain before he could live up to the lofty expectations they'd set him. Over the past few years, Harry'd been only too happy to show his good neighbors just how "right" they'd been. It was the least he could do for all of their "encouragement".

Harry stood motionlessly in the causeway for ten full minutes, his face changing from a look of annoyance to what could only be described as smoldering anger. Even before he'd disembarked from the train, he'd known that the Dursleys would not show up at the station. He'd known they wouldn't before he'd ever written and posted the letter telling them to pick him up from the train station. He'd even been nice enough to warn them, in not so many words, that there would be consequences if they failed to do so, which was a hell of a lot more warning than he usually gave his enemies. He'd known that this would guarantee they leave him on his own to get home.

While all this was true, it didn't stop Harry's insides from boiling with anger at being disregarded. He'd given them the opportunity to save themselves and what did they do? They'd scorned his rare mercy, mercy that better people than them deserved from him. His aunt and uncle had thought that he was helpless, that they would break him as he'd broken their son, that he was powerless to stop them. A year ago, they'd been right, but things had changed. They'd shown many, many times in the years since he'd gone off to St. Brutus' that they hadn't learned the lesson his little plastic cricket bat had taught their son. Today, they would start learning that same bitter lesson. The Vernon and Petunia Dursley were going to learn what happened to people that crossed Harry Potter.

Harry strode purposely from the station, roughly shoving aside people that were too slow to move out of his way. He flashed a menacing frown at anyone who dared protest which, fortunately, seemed to shut them up quickly. The way he was feeling, Harry was sure he would've fought anyone who wanted to challenge him at that moment. The more rational part of him knew that the last thing he needed was to catch a case when he had so much work to do.

Once outside the station, Harry hailed a taxicab. The driver looked suspiciously at him, but the promise of a large fare won over his skepticism. Harry wasn't too surprised, since Little Whinging was in a fairly nice part of Surrey. Still, he was glad he could count on the gullibility and greed of the driver. He knew there was a bus into Surrey, of course, but as far as Harry was concerned, public transportation, was for the birds, and he wasn't going to bother with it if he didn't have to. The fact that he didn't have nearly enough money to pay the fare didn't bother him too much. If all went well, he wouldn't have to pay the man a single pence.

Harry remained still and silent as the car drove away from the train station. Though he looked out of the window, he hardly noticed the world passing by. As he often did when he had nothing better to do, he set about reigning in his stray thoughts and memories and re-examining them more closely. He found that doing so helped him think much more clearly, which he'd definitely need to do when he reached Little Whinging. At that moment, his thoughts were all over the place. Harry wasn't exactly surprised about this; quite a bit had happened in the last twenty-four hours that he needed to think on.

Halfway to Surrey, Harry turned his attention to the Dursleys, the people that held special places in his heart where his hatred burned. In the years since he'd attacked Dudley and his gang, this hatred for them had not waned in the slightest; if anything, it was greater than ever. This probably would not have been so if he hadn't been forced to return to the hell of Number Four, Privet Drive every summer.

Back when he'd been sent off to St. Brute's (as the students called it), Harry had been strangely relieved about the situation. Even after the all of the hell he had inflicted on him because he was the youngest and weakest at the school, Harry wasn't sorry that things had turned out as they had. Anything that separated him from the Dursleys seemed like a godsend. But then, near the end of his first year at the reform school, his elation all came crashing down when he learned that he couldn't stay at St. Brute's over the summer.

He'd protested, of course, but no amount of begging or pleading changed the decision. Dr. Joyce Wainwright, St. Brute's counselor and psychiatrist, had decided that Harry needed to spend time with his "family" to work through their problems and said that it would be good for his emotional development. Like so many things, she was ignorant of how terrible the Dursleys really were and had no idea what she was subjecting him to. While Harry had done only one thing to make Dudley pay for his bullying and abuse, there never seemed to be an end to the things his aunt and uncle did to make him pay for hurting their son. As he learned over the following summers, only the routine, weekly visits from Dr. Wainwright and a Child Protective Services case worker kept them from killing him outright.

That was Harry's reality for two and a half months every year. He kept his hate for them and the desire to make them suffer very near and dear to his heart. During those years, he'd thought endlessly about how to get his revenge on the Dursleys, but only over the last year had he been able to overcome his fear enough to find a viable solution. And thanks to the help of one of Harry's rare friends at school, there was no way the plan was going to fail.

The boy's name was David Foster, a seventeen year old roommate of Harry's who also, coincidentally, happened to live a few streets away in Little Whinging. While Harry had always felt he was smarter than average (even if he didn't bother showing it in class), David was, without a doubt, the smartest kid at St. Brute's. Six years in the cut-throat, gang oriented culture of the reform school had made the boy just as street-smart as he had been book-smart. Being friends with him had been something of a godsend, as Harry had learned quite a bit from the older boy. In fact, since he'd known about the way the Dursleys treated Harry, David had encouraged Harry to take charge of his life and get rid of their influence over him.

Thus, about a month prior, the two had begun planning th e downfall of the Dursleys. Harry fell into it with gusto, trying to absorb what David was trying to teach him about revenge. When David finally seemed satisfied, Harry knew that his revenge would be perfect, as David's plan's always were. The only sticking point now was that he hadn't planned to go through with it so early in the summer, but he felt fairly confident nonetheless.

It hadn't occurred to him until very recently that he'd always held a measure of power over his aunt and uncle. Every week during the summers, they would threaten him with all sorts of harm if he didn't tell Dr. Wainwright that everything was just fine. He'd done so for fear of his own safety but had never really thought of why they'd been so adamant about it. During the school year, though, David had clued him in on why. Harry learned that he was not, by any stretch of the imagination, the only student at school that had been and continued to be abused by their family. Many of them, the ones who didn't have completely mental parents, minimized the problem by threatening to call (or actually calling) the police and their case workers and complaining of abuse. Even the students whose parents weren't abusive at all used the tactic to scare them into giving free reign during the summer. As nervous as the Dursleys tended to be during the weekly visits, Harry was pretty sure that it would work for him too. Of course, if everything went as planned, he probably wouldn't even need to bother.

"That'll be sixty quid, _guv_." the cabbie said brusquely as the taxi pulled up in front of Number 4 Privet Drive.

"Jesus, mate, can't ya help with me ruddy trunk b'fore tryin' ta rob me blind?" Harry replied just as rudely. "Never mind, I'll get it me self. Pop tha boot, willya?"

After heaving his trunk out of the boot, he went back around to the driver. "Listen, mate, me stupid uncle did'n give me enough. Give me a mo' and I'll get 'im to set ya right, yeah?"

Harry didn't bother to wait for the man's acceptance. If he wanted his fare, he was going to wait. Reaching the front door, he rummaged in his pocket and pulled out a small, thin file and a little wire brush that was just as thin. With a practiced hand, he picked the lock and quietly pushed open the door. The sound of a too loud television assaulted Harry's ears, but he wasn't exactly surprised and, as an added benefit, the noise actually covered the sound of his entrance. After closing the door silently, he quietly crept up the stairs, avoiding the creaky step halfway up, and walked down the upstairs hallway until he reached his bedroom.

"Well, it'll be mine by tonight." he muttered coldly, closing the door behind him. In truth, the room was really his cousin's second bedroom and had been for as long as Harry could remember. The Dursleys used it to store all of Dudley's older (and likely broken) toys and other cast-offs. Just the thought that Dudley's belongings had gotten a better room than he had made Harry that much angrier. Fortunately, there was a working telephone in the room, just the thing he needed. Harry picked it up and made a quick call. He locked the door, then set about making space for his things in the cluttered room.

Ten minutes later (and exactly when Harry expected it), there was a pounding on the front door, followed by voices that steadily rose to an angry row. The sound of his uncle arguing with the taxi driver sounded almost like music to his ears, and he smirked to himself. Harry looked himself over in the mirror, thinking that the bruises he'd gotten from his fights the previous day would look just right. The door slammed downstairs and he heard his uncle yell.

"WHERE ARE YOU, BOY?" Vernon bellowed, his voice making the windows shake slightly. "When I find you, you'll wish you'd never been born!"

"Too late for that." Harry snorted derisively to himself. It was time to get things rolling.

He stomped and jumped around loudly, advertising the fact that he was upstairs in Dudley's room, where he was definitely not allowed. A few moments later, Vernon pounded up the steps, followed closely by two other sets of much quieter footsteps. Harry was surprised the man could make it up the steps so fast with his considerable girth. "Open this damn door, boy!" Vernon's fists made meaty thuds against the door, shaking the frame a bit.

"Go ta hell, yeh fat arse!" Harry shot back, enjoying the rage that it caused in his uncle. "And get tha bloody hell away from _my_ door."

"I'm taking sixty pounds out of your arse, you little shit, and no. Damn. Door's. Stopping. ME!" Vernon punctuated the words with great blows against the door. Just when it seemed that the door frame would give way, Harry quickly threw the door open. Vernon stumbled into the room, tripped over Harry's trunk, and fell headlong onto the floor, crashing into a bookcase. All of Dudley's untouched books, along with a few heavy and broken toys, tumbled on top of him. Harry laughed loudly at this, hoping the man had broken his neck. No such luck because the pile of books started moving slowly. He quietly slipped on his handy pair of brass knuckles and waited. Vernon surprised him again, Throwing the books off himself and returning to his feet faster than Harry thought possible, his face splotchy and purple with rage. At that moment, he looked very much like an angry bull preparing to charge.

Harry wasn't exactly a stranger to this type of situation. For that matter, his uncle was hardly the biggest person he'd ever fought either. Since he was so small, Harry knew that even his hardest shots would only make Vernon more angry. Just like with all of his other much bigger opponents, he really only had to control that anger, just as a matador controlled a bull. After all, Harry mused, everything depended on putting on a good show.

Vernon lunged at him, his huge hands grasping for Harry's throat. Harry stepped back, but Vernon's hands closed around the collar of his shirt. His uncle yanked him up, leaving his feet dangling as the shirt dug into his throat. "This is going to hurt you a lot more than it'll hurt me." Vernon said, leering maliciously.

"I don't think so. This is gonna hurt yeh quite a lot." Harry said calmly. He grabbed hold of his uncle's wrists, pulled back his right leg, and slammed it into his uncle's groin as hard as he could manage. The large man's eyes watered and a pained expression crossed his face, but he just barely managed not to drop Harry. His grip didn't last long, though, because Harry kicked him in the same spot. He suddenly found himself back on his feet while Vernon crumpled to the floor, clutching his groin.

"Is that it, then?" Harry said, trying to sound bored.

"You...you just signed your death warrant, boy!" Vernon hissed painfully. "I'll kill you!"

The roar of pain and fury was enough for Harry to know that Vernon was in just the right state of mind, so he didn't even try to dodge the huge fist that sent him stumbling into the wall. Stars burst in front of his eyes, but Harry quickly shook them away in time to roll with another punch, this time to his gut. He was no expert fighter, but Harry could easily tell that his uncle knew less than him, which it made it that much easier to avoid most of the damage. Each time Vernon missed, his hand found a bit of the wall to bloody itself on, and he became even more enraged. Harry watched carefully, trying to judge the moment when Vernon was so angry that he wouldn't be able to stop himself, while avoiding most of the blows and peppering the man with punches.

Vernon roared louder than ever and Harry smartly ducked the punch, which was so hard that his uncle's fist poked a hole into the wall. Harry had been waiting for this, and as much as it would hurt, he knew he'd have to start losing. A fist found his face, rattling his teeth and sending him down to one knee. Vernon followed it up with a kick to his ribs that knocked him on his back. Harry quickly curled up but the following three kicks hurt like hell. Vernon dragged Harry to his feet by his shirt and savagely backhanded him. Blood rolled from his broken nose and mixed with blood that was running from his mouth. Already Harry could feel his left eye getting slightly puffy.

"How do you like that, you ungrateful little bastard?" Vernon slapped him again. Thanks to the way he was being held, Harry couldn't avoid the blow. His head swam as he tried to clear his head, but it was useless since his uncle slapped him several more times. "Sixty pounds! You can bet your arse you're working that off, you-"

Vernon stopped short as Harry spit directly in his face. He wiped the bloody spittle from his face, looking ready to explode. Instead, though, he dragged Harry out of the room by the collar. Harry struggled, wondering what his uncle was going to do, when it became quite obvious. Vernon held him off the floor at the top of the stairs, a wild look in his eyes. Harry's face must have blanched because Vernon looked at him with unnatural glee. He did nothing more than grunt as he shoved Harry forward and dropped him.

Harry barely had time to think before he began crashing down the stairs. Instinct took over as he braced his head and neck with his arms and rolled backwards down the stairs. At the bottom, he unluckily landed on his feet and his momentum sent him slamming hard into the wall. Harry fell to the floor in a heap, trying to shake away the spinning in his head that was making him sick. He hurt badly from his neck to his tail bone, but he did not feel the familiar pain of a broken bone. Harry pushed himself to his feet, swaying slightly, his head spinning. He gave a mocking laugh that was far more confident than he was feeling.

"Izzat it? I'm still standin', ya worthless piece of shite!" he yelled defiantly.

Vernon thundered down the stairs, just as Harry hoped he would. He dashed out of the front door and slammed it shut just as his uncle reached him. "Someone help me! He's tryin' ta kill me!" Harry screamed at the top of his lungs. He looked around desperately, as if he couldn't decide what to do, while several of the neighbors eyed him with curiosity and suspicion. They were all startled when Vernon ripped open the front door, looking at Harry like a mad man. "Stay away from me!"

Any other time, Harry could have gotten away with ease, and he'd even planned to fake his escape, but Vernon had done quite a number on him. He'd only gotta a few steps further before being tripped up and thrown to the ground by his uncle. Vernon kicked him over and began raining wild, powerful blows on Harry, who rolled and covered himself as best he could. He thought he heard yelling and then, suddenly, the hitting stopped and his uncle was no longer standing over him. Harry rolled over and coughed up a little blood, feeling sharp pains in his stomach and chest as he did so. He painfully pushed himself up into a sitting position and was greeted with the sight of a commotion the likes of which Little Whinging hadn't seen in years.

Vernon was pinned face down on the ground by two police officers, one whom was roughly cuffing his hands behind his back. Both had their clubs out and from the pained moaning of his uncle, Harry knew that they'd been liberally employed. He glanced around and saw that nearly all of the neighbors had come out of their houses to watch. Harry could see the first few people who had witnessed the event talking animatedly to the other neighbors and knew the story would work around the town by nightfall.

The officers heaved Vernon to his feet as gently as one would haul up a heavy bag of garbage. While one roughly pushed his uncle towards the waiting police car, the other came over and knelt down so that they were eye level. "Can you stand, son?" Harry nodded, not looking the man in the eyes. "All right, let me help you up, then you can tell me about what happened, okay?"

Harry nodded and limped after the officer to the waiting car. Over the next five minutes, he told the man everything that had happened since he'd arrived at the house, with a few strategic omissions or embellishments. More importantly, he made sure to mention that he already had a child services case file and hinted that it was not the first time that his uncle had hit him. Outside, the other officer was talking to Petunia, who looked scared, angry, and, most of all, embarrassed. By this time Harry had finished giving his statement, a third police car had arrived and, after talking to an old lady in the crowd, his aunt entered the car. The three cars left Privet Drive, leaving behind a crowd of onlookers who were gossiping and shaking their heads disapprovingly at what had happened.

Inside the lead car, Harry sat silently in the back seat, looking out the window with a carefully controlled look of pain and fear on his face. His whole face hurt and the handkerchief that the officer had given him was only just staunching the flow of blood from his nose. The police officer talked to him the entire way to the station, assuring Harry that they wouldn't let his uncle hurt him anymore and that he was safe. Harry very nearly snorted derisively at this. Others had promised the same thing before, but since it never changed anything, he wasn't relying on them this time. He had taken his own steps to make sure Vernon Dursley was out of his life for good.

Things had gone almost exactly as planned. Granted, there'd been an surprise or two, like the fact that Vernon had really tried to kill him, but otherwise Harry was pleased with the way things had turned out. Vernon had reacted to his provocation almost exactly as as predicted. The policemen that Harry had called earlier had acted exactly as David had said they would. They'd even checked the surrounding houses when it was clear that the address they'd been given wasn't right. The neighbors knew about Harry and the stories about abuse at Number Four, of course, so the officers had plenty of reason to stick around. Their questioning was what brought out almost the entire neighborhood, just in time to see Vernon attack Harry. By the time Harry had rushed out of the house screaming for help, the stage had been set. Vernon had played his role beautifully, so much so that, after witnessing the event, the policemen were on his side and were ready to swallow any story he had to tell them.

At the police station, Harry was led by the officer to the desk of a detective by the name of Berlow, who, after watching the two men confer briefly, Harry was pretty sure would be just as receptive as the officer himself. As the men talked, the other officers escorted both Petunia and Vernon into the station. The rage and indignation on Vernon's face, along with the fear and embarrassment on Petunia's, were beautiful to Harry. His uncle shouted and spluttered angrily, stupidly making things worse for himself, while his aunt kept her lips shut tightly. As they were led past him, shooting angry daggers at him with their eyes, Harry dropped his act for just a moment, long enough for them to see his hate-filled, gloating smirk of triumph. Their eyes widened as they looked from him to the hostile faces of the the policemen and the realization that they were in serious trouble became apparent. Harry could only laugh inwardly. The Dursleys had no idea how badly he planned to ruin their perfect little lives.

When Harry had finally returned home, it was well after sunset. He'd done a lot of talking to a lot of people, half of whom were either trying to find holes in his story or match it up with what his aunt and uncle were saying. He hadn't been too worried about that. While they would both lie to cover themselves, Harry figured that the detectives would be able to get his aunt to tell the truth. He'd also talked briefly with Dr. Wainwright and was firmly reassured that she was still in his pocket. Best and most unexpectedly of all, his local caseworker, a middle-aged man named Smith who had never given Harry much consideration, was falling all over himself to "help". With Smith on his side, there wasn't much the Dursleys could do to stop him, not unless they wanted serious trouble with child protective services.

The lights were on in the house, meaning that Petunia and Dudley were at home. Given the time and what had happened that day, both would be preoccupied; Dudley with watching the television and Petunia with cleaning her already spotless kitchen. Harry imagined that his aunt had been very surprised that she, too, wasn't sitting in a jail cell that night. He really hoped that she was relieved, maybe even hopeful that he had be taken away to a foster home. It would make her all the more upset when she learned that he'd kept her out of jail and that he hadn't done so for benign reasons.

Harry crept up to the front door, slipping his hand into his pocket quickly and retrieving two small tools from his pocket. With practiced ease, he slipped them into the keyhole, deftly wiggled them, and turned the lock. He paused in the foyer, listening for Dudley and Petunia and, as he'd thought, they were indeed in the living room and the kitchen. He quietly closed the door and walked towards the living room, though with the clattering in the kitchen and the TV blaring, he hardly needed to bother. He froze when his aunt called to his cousin from the kitchen, asking if he was hungry. Harry thought it was a really stupid question, since the only time Dudley didn't say yes to it was when his mouth was too full to talk. Peering around the corner into the living room, Harry wasn't surprised to see Dudley stupidly staring at the screen, completely oblivious to everything around him. This was fine with Harry. If anything, it was going to make the next few minutes far more amusing.

He quietly picked up a fire poker, enjoying the balanced heft of it and thinking that it would do nicely indeed. Taking each end of the poker in his hands, he walked to the sofa, directly behind his cousin. When Dudley leaned back to laugh, Harry lowered the poker and quickly pulled it back into his cousin's throat. It was very tempting to _really _hurt Dudley, but Harry knew that wouldn't serve any purpose, so he loosened his pressure just enough to keep him conscious.

"Well hello there, _Diddykins_. Trouble breathing?" Harry said with a small chuckle. Dudley gurgled loudly and clawed at his throat and the poker, trying to pull away, and Harry rewarded this by pulling back on the poker a bit. Dudley gagged loudly, but the the sound of the television drowned him out. "Don't be thick, Duddy. Keep it up and I might _accident'ly_ choke ya to death. Now get yer fat arse over this sofa."

Despite being a good deal stronger than he looked, Harry normally never would have been able to drag his cousin's considerable girth over the back of the sofa. Being half-pulled and half-choked by and unyielding iron rod, though, was quite an incentive to move for Dudley, and he scrambled backwards faster than Harry thought he was capable. He fell in a heap on the floor just as Harry released him from the poker assisted strangle hold. His labored breathing and whimpering disgusted Harry, who had to force himself not to kick the boy. "Shut it, or I'll give ya somethin' ta cry about. Now get up, and yeh make so much as a peep, I'll introduce ya ta me new best friend."

Harry emphasized the point by waving the poker menacingly. Dudley rose to his feet shakily, flinching at the slightest move he made. Harry could see the fear in the boy's eyes and he couldn't really blame his cousin for it. After all, he'd been the one that put the three scars across the left side of Dudley's face, which had left it looking slightly pinched in and his left eye half blind. Dudley's fear seemed to feed something in him, some feeling that Harry couldn't quite identify. Whatever it was, he liked it. "Good boy. Now call yer mum in here, and don't even think about sayin' anything else. Got it?" Dudley didn't respond, seeming far too afraid to say anything. Harry's anger flashed quickly and he raised the poker as if to strike. "I said: Have. You. Got. It?"

Dudley nodded vigorously, tears beginning to leak from his eyes, and Harry knew that the boy wouldn't need any more convincing. Dudley was too afraid to be a problem. That only left his aunt, and Harry was ready to take care of her. "Yeh'd better. Now do it." Harry hissed.

"Yes, Duddykins?" Petunia said, answering Dudley's slightly strained call. "What is it, de-"

Harry smirked at her as she paled. He made sure to stand slightly behind and to the left of Dudley so that she wouldn't see the poker. "Hello, Aunt Petunia. Good of yeh to join us." he said, his voice pleasant but his face looking anything but.

"You! What are _you_ doing here?" Petunia hissed angrily.

Harry ignored her question. "Sit yer arse down, ya horse-faced bint." he said, enjoying the look of rage his insult caused.

"Out!" She advanced on them, her cheeks flushed with anger. "Get out of this-"

Far too quickly for her to stop him, Harry swung the poker as hard as he could. The iron rod hit his cousin's right leg with a nasty smack, the knee popping and buckling unnaturally on impact. Dudley screamed in pain and collapsed onto the ground, clutching his leg, tears streaming from his eyes. Petunia stopped dead, her eyes wide with shock, while Harry looked amusedly at his cousin writhing on the floor in agony.

"I think it's broken. What do ya think?" he said casually, prodding Dudley's leg and provoking a howl of pain. Harry grinned nastily at his aunt. "Oh yeah, def'nitely broken."

This seemed to snap Petunia out of her shock. Here eyes flicked quickly between her son and her nephew, her face slowly morphing from horror to outrage, and she looked ready to attack. Harry smirked at her. "Don't be stupid, woman, or I might have to break the other one." Harry's voice became colder and harder. "Or I might just miss, and then we'd see how tough that steel plate in Duddy's head is."

Petunia paled again and took a quick step back, the look of horror on her face again. Harry gave a hollow laugh. "Good girl. Now sit yer arse down. And I thought I told yeh to shut it, Duddy. It's just yer bleedin' knee. Be happy it ain't yer skull."

Harry wanted to sit, but since he was much shorter than his aunt, he knew he'd be much more intimidating standing. He stepped over his cousin and got within swinging distance of her. It pleased him a great deal when she involuntarily flinched. He'd planned this speech for some time, so his next words flowed out without any pauses. "Things are gonna change 'round here, startin' today, and yeh've got no say in the matter. Yer gonna do as I say, when I say, without no stupid questions. Yer not-"

"Y-you won't get away with th-this!" Petunia seemed to find some courage because, even as she flinched, she interrupted Harry. "I'll call the police and-"

CRASH! Harry shattered the glass coffee table with a hard swing of the poker, a look of fury marring his ten year-old face. "Shut the fuck up! Yer not calling anyone!" he yelled wildly. "Yeh'd better learn this real quick: I'm in charge now, not you! Yeh don't fucking get ta talk unless I tell ya to!"

"I-I d-don't have to t-take this." Petunia insisted, but she didn't sound very convinced.

"Like hell ya don't." Harry took a step towards her and she shrank back into the sofa. "I had to take all tha shit you and yer family shoveled on me. So, yeah, ya damn well will take it, and yeh'll learn ta like it, or I'll fuckin' bury you."

Petunia didn't seem to acknowledge what he'd said, instead focusing on the slightly bent iron poker. Harry snorted. "Look at you, scared of me. Yeh should be, but not because of _this_." He tossed the poker behind the sofa. It clanged loudly on the floor, making Petunia jump. "Yer prob'ly thinkin' yeh can take me now. Maybe yeh can. Before yeh try, though, think about what's gonna happen to yer precious Duddykins if ya do."

Petunia, who was just risen from the sofa, paused and looked at her nephew with narrowed eyes. "Shut up, you stupid little freak! I'll stop you before you get to him again."

Harry outright laughed this time. "See, that's yer problem. Yeh think the only way I can hurt yeh is by hitting yeh and Dudley? Yer idiot husband thought tha same thing, and look where he is now. I've got yeh by the throat, but yer just too stupid to see it."

Harry flopped onto a nearby chair, completely calm and unafraid. Petunia seemed too unnerved to actually do anything. "Yeh know, it's amazin' how much yeh learn about tha law at St. Brute's. Did yeh know that yeh can be charged with child abuse for letting Vernon beat me? It's called being an accessory to a crime. That piece o' shit yeh call yer husband is goin' ta prison, and I'll make sure he stays there a long time." Harry said, a hard edge to his voice. "Now what do ya think would happen if I said it was you what told him to do it? Or that yeh even helped?"

"N-no...they'll never believe _you_." She said stubbornly.

Harry smirked at her. "Yeah they will. They saw him beatin' me on the front lawn, and you watching, and everyone around here knows I always have bruises. I bet yeh didn't know that li'l bit of gossip, did you?" Harry paused and let his words sink in. "Yeh think yeh got let off today because yer innocent? They think yeh should be in jail right along with Vernon, but they let ya go because I wanted them to. All I have ta do is turn on tha waterworks and feed tha child protection people a story they want ta hear, and yeh'll be gone.

"Yeh remember my caseworker, that fucking shite Smith that yeh and Vernon liked so well? Yeah, with me already having a case and counseling and then this happening, he's in a real spot. He's so scared he'll get sacked over this that he'll buy anything I say. I could slip up and say that yeh were beating me _and _ Dudley. Course, Dudley'd still be recovering from yer 'abuse', so he wouldn't have much to add to the story."

Harry smiled vindictively. "No one'll believe a word yeh say. Yeh'll go to prison for years, yer name'll be mud, and yeh'll lose ev'rything. Even Dudley won't be 'round to see yeh, since he'll be joining his dear cousin at St. Brutus' Secure Center for Incurably Criminal Boys, after he gets caught doing some very serious crimes. I'm sure he'll be lovely after a few years there. After all, it did wonders for me."

The look of shock and horror had returned to Petunia's face with a vengeance. Harry couldn't tell if she was afraid of the future he'd laid out or if she was just shocked that he'd devised such a devastating plan. Either way, it gave him great joy to cause her so much mental anguish. Her face was an open book as she really thought about what he'd said and considered the consequences. Finally, with a frightened and resigned look on her face, she asked the question that he wanted to hear. "Very well...what...what is it you want?"

"Tha's more like it. Sit down, shut up, and listen." Harry said harshly. When she'd taken her seat again, he continued. "Things are gonna change 'round here, and yeh've got no say in how. Yeh'll do as I say or you and Dudley will suffer. Understand?" Petunia stared silently at him, only to jump slightly when he growled dangerously at her. "I said do yeh _fuckin' _understand?" Petunia bit her trembling lip and nodded slightly, the tears that had been shining in her eyes finally slipping down her face.

"From now on, we're gonna act like Vernon is dead. Yeh won't call him, yeh won't write him, yeh won't visit him, yeh won't try to help him in any way. Yer gonna burn any letter he sends and hang up whenever he calls. If his solicitor asks for help, yeh'll tell him no." Harry hardly acknowledged his aunt's defeated nod.

"Tomorrow, yer gonna go out and find a job. Or two, I don' really care as long as yeh keep paying the bills around here. Don't get the stupid idea that yeh don't have to do things around the house, though. I dunno how useful Duddy here'll be, and I damn sure ain't doin' any bloody chores.

"Yer both gonna stay outta me way this summer, and yer gonna keep yer mouths shut. I'll come and go and do as I please and yeh, Aunt Petunia, are gonna lose the idea that yeh have some kind of power over me. And before either of yeh get any stupid ideas about hurting or locking me up, yeh should know that I have a friend that'll bring the police running if I don't talk to him every day." Harry stood up, clearly ending the conversation. "I'll only warn yeh once: don't piss me off. "

"You-you're a monster!" Petunia blurted out. She covered her mouth fearfully. Harry turned around but, unexpectedly, his expression wasn't angry. If anything, he looked amused.

"Ya know, yeh've said that for years. I thought yeh'd be happy to see that it really is true." he said with a sardonic smile. "Oh, and yeh should get Duddy to the hospital for those two broken knees."

Petunia looked worriedly at her son, who was still whimpering and clutching his right leg. "But he's only got one broken knee." she said, sounding almost relieved.

Harry 's brow furrowed with anger, and she immediately knew she'd said the wrong thing. "Yeh calling me a liar?" he said dangerously, walking over to Dudley's prone form. Without any warning, he jumped and stomped on the boy's left knee with both feet. There was a sickening crack, and Dudley gave a strangled cry of pain before passing out. Heedless of what Harry might do, Petunia rushed to her son's side and hugged him, loud sobs racking her body. "Don't _ever_ call me a liar again. I told yeh not to piss me off. Don't make me say it again."

Harry walked from the room without so much as a backwards glance. He was shaking, but he couldn't decide if it was because of fear or excitement. Throwing himself down on his bed, Harry felt conflicting emotions welling in his chest. The fear of betrayal and reprisal mixed with his slight empathy for his cousin's pain and innate revulsion at his own cruelty. These feelings, though, were overshadowed by the thrill of triumph and the savage pleasure of utterly crushing and dominating two people he absolutely hated. The Dursleys deserved a hundred times worse and he wasn't sorry to be the one to give it to them. With that thought to comfort him, Harry drifted off to sleep.

A week passed and then another before Harry felt that he'd truly beaten his aunt and cousin into submission. Dudley hadn't really been a problem, being bound to a wheelchair as he was and scared to death of Harry to boot. Harry had to give the boy credit; for being a fat pig on wheels, Dudley sure did manage to stay out of his way. His aunt, on the other hand, took a full week before she completely understood that he was the boss. She and Dudley kept having little accidents around the house that Harry made clear were his doing. More seriously, during their first weekly counseling session with Dr. Wainwright, Harry had vaguely implied that Petunia was abusing him and that she was responsible for Dudley's knees. What with Vernon's recent arrest and Dudley's injuries happening so soon after, it was clear that the counselor was buying the story. Harry's threats were all too real, and so, too, did Petunia fall into line. She had become a very nervous woman whenever Harry was around, especially since everything she did seemed to anger him. Very fortunately for her, he was hardly in the house and she had a full time job to occupy herself.

Harry, meanwhile, was having the best summer of his life, though all things considered, that wasn't exactly a ringing endorsement. With his relatives in check, he was free to do as he pleased, and what he pleased was running around with a new crew. The gang didn't really have any heavy hitters and, to be honest, Harry had a good reason to dislike most of the boys in the group. However, David (who'd finally returned to Little Whinging after visiting relatives) vouched for them, so Harry gave them the benefit of the doubt. Though they were skeptical at first, the boys had come to hold a healthy respect and fear for him. This was mostly because, on the first day he'd hung out with them, Harry had calmly asked which of them was the best fighter. When the biggest boy there stepped forward, Harry proceeded to beat the stuffing out of him. Having David's approval, as well as having spent years at St. Brute's, didn't hurt either.

This new gang was almost a completely different animal from the one he was used to, but Harry didn't understand why until he'd asked David. According to the older boy, most of their activity would generally be small stuff at St. Brute's, things like vandalism and shoplifting, otherwise they would just loiter around the local corner shop. At night, they would usually hang out in one of the alleys, smoking cigarettes and drinking beer or whiskey someone had stolen out of their parents' cupboard. Harry being so young, the other boys generally didn't give him more than a sip or two, and since he didn't care for the taste of alcohol, this was quite fine with him.

Gang fights weren't as big a deal since the next closest gang was several miles away. This was just as well to Harry, since he didn't think he could trust any of them besides David to watch his back. For all of the fighting the other boys did with each other, they weren't very good at it. David had said that they were always trying to establish the pecking order. Harry had seen this happen even in their gang at St. Brute's, but nowhere near as often, and Harry never took part in it. It was just as well that he'd beaten that boy the first day; firmly established as the number two in the gang, he didn't have to waste his time proving he could hurt the others.

Even though he'd helped come up with the plan that he'd used, David had been pretty impressed when Harry told him about how it had worked out. Knowing how badly they'd treated Harry over the years, and how much Harry hated them, David wasn't surprised or even bothered by the way Dudley had been injured. If anything, he'd said, they deserved worse, and following through like that had shown Harry's aunt that he meant business.

Meanwhile, even though he'd forbidden his aunt and cousin from contacting Vernon, Harry hadn't followed those same restrictions. Since he had been required to press charges against his uncle, it was a given that he'd see the man at least a few times while the case was being prosecuted. When he'd first considered the outcome of his plan, Harry had gleefully imagined his uncle being represented by one of the bumbling public defenders that had handled his case years before. That had, indeed, been the case at the arraignment and bail hearing, where Vernon was sorely disappointed to see that only Harry had shown up. Because he'd been arrested over the weekend, and because Harry had worked so quickly, Vernon hadn't been able to contact anyone for bail money, either.

However, at the first pre-trial meeting Harry had with the prosecutor a few days later, he learned that a new advocate had taken his uncle's case, and he had a pretty good idea about who'd hired them. Even then, he hadn't been all that concerned, at least not until David had warned him about what it all could mean.

"Think about it, Harry. With your rap sheet, any half-decent advocate could get your uncle off with a slap on the wrist. And you can bet your ass that whoever hired an advocate for him is also working on getting bail money together." David gave him a significant look. "Imagine how pissed he'll be, especially after he finds out the rest of what you did. You've gotta handle this before that happens."

Harry couldn't disagree, but he really wasn't sure what to do about it. "This case has ta go away, but he's gotta stay in jail. How the hell am I gonna make that happen?"

David shrugged. From the look on his face, Harry knew that the older boy _did _know what to do, but wanted him to figure it out on his own. After several days of racking his brain, he realized what he needed to do. "He's gotta plead out, right?" Harry asked. "That way he stays in jail, no matter what that advocate does."

"Christ, it took you long enough to figure that out. You're slippin', Harry." David said, but he grinned good-naturedly. "But yeah, get him to plead out. And if I were you, I'd spin a little sob story to the magistrate. They eat that shit up in child abuse cases, and you're pretty good at it."

Getting in to see Vernon had been trivial; he'd told the officers that he was Dudley and leaked a few tears. Getting the his uncle to sit and listen had been harder, but Harry had learned a thing or two about getting people's attention. It had been a simple matter of making the right kind of threats towards the things Vernon cared about, namely his family, his money, and his reputation (in that order). To seal the deal, Harry revealed a damning bit of leverage that he held and, within minutes, his rather shocked uncle had promised to plead guilty on all counts. He made Vernon further agree to sack his new advocate and, when convicted, turn down any parole. The final stipulation was similar to those Harry had placed on Petunia and Dudley: absolutely no contact at all with his family. With a veritable guillotine hanging over his neck, Vernon could do nothing but agree to Harry's demands.

It was a very different Vernon Dursley that left the visitation room that day. Before, he'd been angry and confident, but he walked way looking beaten down and humbled. Harry had seen that look many times at St. Brute's, and he took great pleasure in causing the downfall of a man who had tried to beat the fight out of him. From that day on, Harry decided to visit Vernon once a week, ostensibly to make sure the man was keeping up his end of the deal, though lording his victory over his abuser would obviously take some time.

The next day, Harry talked with the prosecutor of the case, who seemed very pleased to inform him that his uncle had agreed to plead guilty to all charges. With this bit of good news, Harry decided to forgo the visit he'd planned with Vernon that day. His uncle was officially out of his life and Harry decided that it was a cause for celebration. Even though only David really knew the reason for Harry's good humor, the rest of their gang was more than happy to ride to London for a spot of trouble.

It was well after one in the morning when Harry stumbled into Number Four. He was inside and had a foot on the stairs before he realized that something was odd. The television was on in the living room. This was fairly unusual because Harry was rarely in the house before midnight and his aunt always made Dudley turn the television off before going to bed. His slightly inebriated mind made him turn around and investigate. The room was empty, which made even less sense, because a telly never went unwatched in the Dursley household. The hairs on his neck began to rise, telling him something was wrong. Harry had taken one step backwards before something hit him hard on the back of his head.

Harry dropped like a sack of stones, his vision swimming with alternating stars and dark spots. His fighting instincts took over, struggling to maintain his hold on consciousness as his body tried to brace for impact. He hit the floor face first but even this did not knock him out. Blood ran warm and thick down his head and across his face. A thick, meaty hand roughly grabbed his shoulder and rolled him over. He stared straight up into the leering, maniacal face of the last man he'd ever wanted to see. It was the last thing he saw before another blow to his face sent him completely into darkness.

Pain. It was the first thing that Harry was aware of as he returned to consciousness. The pain he felt was the sharp, throbbing kind that always came with a pretty bad blow to the head. He had a slight concussion at least, if the nausea he felt was any indication. Harry reached up to check the damage. That is, he tried to, but his arm wouldn't budge. He realized why soon enough because something thin and strong dug into his wrist. With a growing sense of dread, Harry tried to stand up from the hard wooden chair he was seated on, only to find the same thin, strong bonds securing him to the chair at his ankles, knees, chest, and neck. At that moment, Harry's dread turned into very real panic.

It took several minutes of panicked struggling against his bonds for Harry to calm down. The bindings, which he was pretty sure was wire, had started cutting into his wrists, and he could feel blood start to trickle down his hands. This, more than anything, drove the panic from his mind and focused him on the task at hand. He needed to get a grip on himself.

"Think, Harry! I want ta escape, not slit me wrists!" he whispered angrily to himself.

Harry gingerly turned his head from side to side, wary of the wire that was far too tight on his neck. It was impossible to make out in the near dark, but the slightly damp air and the recognizable drip of a leaky faucet told him that he was tied up in the cellar of Number Four. This was a very good thing. As much time as he'd been forced to spend down there over the years, Harry could make his way around there blindfolded. In addition, he could easily hear when someone moved around upstairs. All he had to do now was get out of his bindings, and he would see about dealing with his captor.

Easier said than done. His struggling had proven to him that the high-backed chair was not going to give, at least not to his one hundred pound frame. The bindings were even worse. He couldn't see them, but Harry was pretty sure they were tied with wire, and since his hands had been bound separately to the legs of the chair, he had no way of untying them. Escape seemed impossible. Unless...yes, he could feel a difference in the bindings if he moved his arms down. He couldn't move them far, only as low as he could shrug his shoulders, but it was enough to slightly loosen the wire and slip it further up his wrist. This was exactly where he needed it for what he was about to do.

Harry relaxed himself completely, forcing the last traces of pain or fear from his mind, and steeled himself for what he was about to do. Focusing his mind solely on his right arm, Harry pulled on the wire. He bit his lip and grimaced as the thin metal dug into already raw skin. Harry ignored the pain, instead concentrating on pulling and trying to will his skin to not break. Because it was actually on his bone and not on the joint, he had more leverage and less pain.

It was long, agonizing, impossible work, loosening the wire centimeters at a time. A very slow trickle of blood dripped from his wrist, which had begun to go numb. Harry felt lightheaded, but he poured all of his strength and will into breaking the restraints. If he could only get one hand free...

Harry felt a small surge of adrenaline as he strained against the bindings. His wrist suddenly felt very warm, and the warmth seemed to soothe his wrist a bit. With a final tug that dug deeper into his wrist, Harry managed to loosen the wire just enough to slip his blood-slicked hand out. He was glad that it was too dark to see clearly, or he might have been tempted to look at the wound on his wrist. Instead, he snaked his fingers around the wire surrounding his left wrist and pulled hard. Unlike his wrists, Harry's hands were rough and calloused, and he barely felt the wire cut into his skin.

Within a few minutes, he'd freed himself from the chair. He swayed unsteadily for a moment as he rose from the chair, the effects of the concussion weighing on him. Swallowing the bile in rising to his mouth, Harry steadied himself. He quickly checked his head for any wounds but, aside from a lot of damp, clotted blood in his hair, he had only the lingering ache in his head to remind him of the attack. If he had anything to do with it, he'd be paying his family back in spades.

First, though, he needed to get out of the cellar. Thanks to his aunt's anal retentiveness, there wasn't much down there that he could use as a weapon. His uncle had also done a good job of searching him while he was unconscious, because he couldn't find his brass knuckles or his switchblade. Once he was upstairs, he would get something from the shed or from his room, and then he'd see about sorting his uncle out. The idea of bashing Vernon's head in with his expensive golf clubs brought an ugly smirk to Harry's face.

Harry stole quickly over to the stairs, listening hard for any warning noises from above. Hearing nothing, he was up the stairs in seconds and cautiously opened the door. The kitchen was empty and in a condition that Harry couldn't remember ever having seen. It was unclean, with food wrappers on the kitchen table and dirty dishes piled in the sink. Even the rubbish bin was suffering and clearly hadn't been emptied that day, as it normally would have been. Harry decided against getting something to quiet his grumbling stomach. Eating could wait until he got himself out of this mess.

Quietly walking through to the hallway, Harry paused and saw that the living room, likewise, was cluttered. Someone had moved most of the furniture to one side of the room and covered it all with big, white sheets. In the middle, another few sheets completely covered the floor, on top of which sat a cage of sorts. From his visits to Aunt Marge's home, he remembered that it was called a dog crate, and indeed there were two bowls for water and food inside. Harry narrowed his eyes angrily at this, and the explanation for why he'd been knocked out and imprisoned became quite clear.

"That _bitch_." Harry hissed to himself. "I'm a bloody idiot."

He'd been too confident, he saw that now. He'd thought it was over when Vernon pleaded out, but he hadn't counted on his Marge being so persistent. She'd hired the solicitor for the bastard, after all. It probably didn't take much to get that solicitor to intervene before everything was official. She must have posted his uncle's bail too, and he'd made a beeline straight for Number 4.

Harry passed the living room and ran up the stairs as quietly as possible. It was a wasted trip, though, because Vernon had removed his bag from Harry's new bedroom. From the way things were strewn about the room, the man had obviously had a destructive fit of anger. But unlike the last time they'd been face to face, this worried Harry quite a bit. This time, he wasn't in control of the man's anger. Vernon had already shown he was ready and capable of hurting him. It was starting to look like running away, instead of fighting, was the smart thing to do.

Harry quickly changed into one of Dudley's huge shirts, his own looking a bloody mess. He was glad he'd taken the time to hide some of his more important things, a habit he'd learned at St. Brute's. Prying up a floorboard, Harry extracted a shoe box which contained his spare brass knuckles, spare pocket knife, and a wad of cash. Pocketing these, he replaced the floorboard before creeping back out of the room and down the stairs. His senses were on high alert but, so far, he'd heard nothing to indicate that anyone was in the house. He didn't want to press his luck, though. There was no telling when Vernon would be back, and Harry wanted to be long gone by then. Not even giving the house a backwards glance, he flung open the front door and ran out, but hit something solid and fell backwards. Vernon looked down on him with a malicious leer and anger in his eyes.

"Going somewhere, boy?" He said nastily, kicking Harry in the face.

Harry's vision was assaulted with stars as pain exploded in his face. He tumbled backwards, scrambling away on his back as fast as he could. Vernon slammed the door and stalked after him. For the first time in a long time, Harry felt real, gripping fear that squeezed his insides. There was no doubting the look in his uncle's eyes; Vernon was going to kill him.

Harry's head ran into something solid; he'd reached the wall and could go no further. He cowered on the floor, looking fearfully up at Vernon's towering form. He flinched as the man reached down towards him, hauling him to his feet with a strong, vice-like grip. They struggled for a minute before a knee to his gut took the air from him and Vernon's hand pinned Harry's neck to the wall. Harry had an unsettling feeling of dejavu, only this time he wasn't anything close to confident. The man nearly choking him had nothing at all to lose. Vernon could, and probably would, do anything to him.

"Didn't think I'd be back, did you, you little shit?" Vernon punched him in the face. Harry had to bite back a yell as his nose broke with a nasty crunch. "Not so damn smart now, are you?"

Harry fought back the panic and gave his uncle a look of cold hatred. "Yeh just made the biggest mistake of yer shitty life. I'm gonna fuckin' bury yeh."

This didn't rile the man, as Harry had expected. Instead, Vernon grinned almost hungrily. "No, you made the mistake, boy, of fucking with my family." He said, snatching up Harry's right hand.

With a quick motion, he snapped Harry's pinky. Harry screamed and thrashed, earning another knee to the gut that sent him to his knees. Vernon kicked him onto his back, where he lay, cradling his hand. Tears leaked from Harry's eyes, blurring the hulking form of his uncle. "You hobbled my Dudders. You're going to pay for that you piece of shit."

Harry's screams echoed through the house as Vernon slowly, tortuously dislocated his right knee. He felt delirious with the pain and the only thing keeping Harry from passing out was the fact that Vernon had started on his left knee. He shook violently and threw up, the disgusting vomit spraying all over his face and nearly choking him. Vernon laughed gleefully as he clamped a hand on his nephew's neck. He squeezed hard, and the last thing Harry heard before unconsciousness claimed him sent a chill down his spine. "And after I make you pay, _I'll_ bury _you_."

Harry wondered, for at least the hundredth time, what day it was. Down in the cellar, where he'd been caged, the windows were covered, and the only time he ever saw light was when his bastard of an uncle came down to torture him. That, then, was how he'd begun to tell time, and the only time that seemed to matter was when it was time to scream.

Harry had been hurt before, even thought he was immune to pain, but his uncle taught him better. Vernon took great pleasure in discovering ways to make him suffer, spurred on by the realization that Harry's injuries, no matter how terrible, always seemed to be better the next torture session. He'd stopped wondering about that very quickly, even started cursing it because it drove his uncle to greater heights of cruelty. When it finally started to weaken, Harry might even have been glad, if he'd had the energy.

Besides the torture, Vernon was also starving him. He'd had nothing to eat since before being captured, and he'd been forced to drink urine to avoid dehydration. That wouldn't last forever, though, and when it was gone, Harry knew he would be dead. The situation seemed utterly hopeless.

The reality of his own premature death seemed to snap Harry out of his stupor. He didn't just not want to die, he didn't want to die at the hands of a worthless human being like Vernon Dursley and then be buried in some unmarked grave. He wasn't going to let that bastard win; he owed the man and his family too much suffering to die. Harry vowed to himself that he was going to break out of his prison. When he did, he was going to show his uncle what real strength was. He'd teach him about real cruelty, and then he'd kill Vernon like the dog he was.

Harry knew he had to eat something to get his energy back, and to do that he needed to get out of the cage. His resolve brought a new calm and patience, driving away the fear and depression he'd been feeling. It was nothing at all to weather a few torture sessions, waiting for the idiot to make a mistake. Four, five, possibly a hundred torturings later, the opportunity came. A rusty nail was found after he spent most of his energy flailing away and falling during one particularly bad flogging. He quickly stowed it in his mouth while feigning concern for his bloodied mouth. It chipped a couple of teeth when Vernon kicked him in the face, but it was worth the pain. The locks on the cage fell one by one because, despite the darkness and his very shaky hands, he was still quite good at picking locks.

Harry limped as quickly as his broken foot would allow towards the right wall, carefully skirting around several stacks of storage boxes that he knew were in the way. Once there, he slowly felt his way along the wall until he found his goal, a shelf that contained rows of dusty jars. The sealed canning jars were the remnants of one of his aunt's hobbies from when he was a toddler. Petunia hadn't been particularly good at pickling and preserving, but the results were edible, and that's all Harry cared about. He struggled for five minutes with the top of one jar before managing to pry it loose. The smell of spices and urine assaulted his nose and his dry mouth instantly began to water. It was a jar of bread and butter pickles, the absolute worst of the batch Petunia had done, but Harry greedily gulped down the liquid, nearly throwing up in his haste. He had just barely begun devouring the pickles themselves before the squeaking of a door hinge made him nearly drop the jar.

Light flooded in from the top of the stairs, throwing an ominous silhouette on the basement floor. Starvation and torture hadn't quite dulled his survival instincts, and Harry quickly ducked down and slunk back into the shadows, trying to keep his harsh breathing silent. He couldn't see Vernon descending the steps, but he could hear the steps as the man approached. Harry knew the exact number of steps from the top of the stairs. He also knew that an old golf club was in a corner near the foot of the stairs, and that the light switch would distract Vernon just long enough to get a good shot in. Harry would have to hit him with everything because, if he missed, he wouldn't have the energy to take another swing.

As silently and quickly as possible, Harry sidled over to the corner, breathing heavily, and took hold of the club. A second later, a shadowed form stepped down and fumbled for the light. Harry raised the club, ready to swing, when the lights flashed on and blinded him. He let out a short cry and swung as hard as he could where he thought Vernon had been. There was a crunch and a sharp ring from the vibrating club in his hands. He'd missed!

Harry dropped the club and threw himself on the floor, balling into a fetal position while cursing himself. It was all over. Despair overwhelmed him and, for the first time, he let himself weep.

"Fuck's sake, Harry, you almost took my bloody head off!" hissed someone that definitely was _not_ Vernon Dursley. Harry's brain almost refused to believe it, but he recognized the voice. "Why the hell'd you – Jesus Christ!"

Harry looked up and, squinting through the tears that still wet his eyes, he saw the face of his only friend in Little Whinging. David looked down at him with a look of pity and revulsion mixed with growing anger. "Shit, Harry. What the fuck did they do to you?"

Harry tried to answer, but his voice didn't seem to work, and only a low moan escaped his lips. David bent down and, more gently than Harry thought the boy was capable of, lifted him to his feet. "Never mind, save your strength." As he slung Harry's arm around his waist and held the smaller boy up, he glanced around. Harry knew what he'd seen and, for some reason, it made his cheeks burn with shame. He was amazed that his friend could stand the smell down there, a mingling of piss and shit and rotting meat. David's voice went very hoarse. "Let's get outta here. We'll sort that fucker out later, Harry, I promise."

Thumping upstairs caught their attention. Harry instinctively cringed. "He's back." he said, his voice hoarse and gravelly.

"No shit. He wasn't supposed to be back yet." David replied, looking up with a worried expression on his face. "Is there another way out of here?"

Harry shook his head. "Didn't think so, that'd be too easy, wouldn't it?" David said, looking straight ahead. Harry recognized his thinking gaze and said nothing, even as the footsteps grew closer. "All right, an ambush, just like you did. Just stand out there in the middle of the room and I'll brain him with this golf club. Easy peasy, yeah?"

Their plan set, Harry hobbled back close to where the dog crate was. David cut the lights just before the heavy steps upstairs reached the cellar door. As before, the door opened and a wide silhouette shadowed the light from upstairs. Vernon stomped down the stairs, pounding on the walls as he came. "Wake up, you good for nothing freak! I've got something for you."

Harry forced himself not to cringe. Instead, when his uncle had finally stepped into the cellar and turned on the light, he stood as tall as possible and put on the best sneer he could manage. Vernon froze, disbelief washing away the look of anticipation on his ugly face. "How the hell..." he spluttered. That quickly gave way to a look of unbridled rage which brought forth a huge, purple vein on his temple. "You stubborn little shit. I'm going to break you in half!"

Harry took an involuntary step back, stumbling and falling on his back. Vernon stalked up on him, grabbing an ax-handle leaning on a nearby table. Behind him, Harry saw David stealing up from behind, the golf club raised to strike. He hadn't meant him to, but Vernon noticed Harry glancing behind him. Without much of a thought of it, he turned around to see what Harry was looking at. What he saw would have made him yell, but he didn't have the time. David stepped forward and swung the club as hard as he could. It hit Vernon with a sickening thud and a crack, catching the man across the throat and chest. His eyes widened with pain and a gurgle escaped his mouth before he fell back to the ground. Blood streamed out of his mouth while he clutched his neck with his left hand.

"Harry. HARRY!" David was shaking him out of his stupor. "C'mon, we've gotta get out of here. Let's go!"

Harry let himself be dragged along. The stairs were slow going, since he didn't have much strength, but they finally made it to the top. David looked back to help him, so he didn't see the chair flying at them. Harry had barely opened his mouth to yell a warning before it slammed into his friend and sent them rolling painfully down the stairs. They seemed to fall forever and then, with a nasty jolt, they hit the bottom.

Harry's head was spinning and his left arm burned with a familiar pain. He didn't need to look down to know he'd broken it badly. Besides, he was more worried about David, whom he'd landed on. Harry rolled off quickly and pulled himself to his knees beside David. His friend lay still, a small puddle of blood growing beneath is head. His limbs were splayed in different directions and, from the pained, shallow breathing, Harry could tell that he'd hurt his ribs as well. He didn't know how, but David had managed to shield him most of the way down, getting the brunt of the damage. They were both lucky to be alive, but it might not be that way for much longer if he didn't get help.

"Dave! Oh Christ...please be okay." Harry croaked, tears spilling from his eyes. David did not move. "S-stay here, Dave. I'm gonna go for help."

He'd barely struggled to his feet when Vernon's meaty hand grabbed him by the neck and lifted him in the air. "You're not going anywhere, freak!" he said with a pained cough, his voice sounding like wet gravel. He threw Harry back away from the stairs, where he landed hard on the dog crate. Harry slumped against the cage, his mind only just coming to terms with what was happening, when he saw something that made him gasp. Vernon reached around and pulled a small revolver from his waistband, a maniacal look on his face. He glanced at Harry, who looked horror-stricken, and then to David, who was still unconscious. His grin turned into a twisted smile as he pointed the gun at David and shot three times.

Harry screamed. It was the loudest and longest scream to ever escape his lips, full of more pain than he'd ever endured. It seemed to ripple across the room like a shock wave, and even Vernon's hand wobbled as he pulled the trigger. It seemed to go on for so long that the sudden silence when it died was a shock in and of itself.

Harry felt his despair and sorrow grow until it seemed he was almost drowning in it. When it seemed he would be overwhelmed, he felt a painful heat growing in his fingers and toes. It spread through his body like a wildfire, the rage and hate flowing through him in torrents. His hate for the man that stood before him, the man who'd killed his friend, burst forth like it never had before. Harry simply did not have the energy or the inclination to hold it back. After what seemed an eternity, he was finally filled to the brim with hate and rage, his body feeling positively on fire.

Vernon didn't seem to know what to make of what was happening to his nephew. One moment the boy was screaming and the next, he was silently shaking. He walked up to Harry, gun pointed at his head smirking viciously.

"I should've done this ten years ago. No more of your games and your freakiness. We're well shot of you." Vernon guffawed at the pun. He felt sweat trickle down his temple and realized, for the first time, that the room had gone suddenly hot and unbearably stuffy. Trying to ignore it, he said "Go to hell."

Harry's eyes suddenly flew open and he looked directly at his uncle, who stumbled back with horror. The boy's eyes were literally burning with emerald fire and his face was a mask of unadulterated hatred. He could see waves of heat radiating from his nephew and, as they hit him, he could feel his skin crack and blister. Vernon instinctively pulled the gun's trigger but it wouldn't budge. He shook the gun and tried again, but, again, it refused to fire. Giving up on shooting Harry, he instead tried to pistol-whip his nephew, only to find himself suddenly unable to move a muscle.

Harry stared at his uncle, who'd become as still as a statue. The _power _flowed through him like it never had before, stronger and more malleable than ever. It responded to his slightest thought as if it were a command. It wrapped itself around him protectively and, for the first time in what seemed like forever, his body felt no pain or hunger or thirst.

But Harry hardly payed any attention to this. He rose to his feet slowly, effortlessly, as if gravity had weakened just for him. His burning eyes never blinked, nor did they wander from his uncle's terrified gaze. He looked at the gun that his uncle still brandished and, with a thought, it was ripped from the man's grip, breaking all of the fingers and shearing the half of the pointer. Vernon's eyes rolled around madly as he screamed through his closed mouth. The muffles sound was music to Harry's ears. With another thought, the man lifted off the ground, his limbs spread eagle. Harry had plans for the last few hours of his uncle's pathetic life. First, though, someone was missing.

Another thought and his _power _flew up the stairs with clap like thunder. The sound of clattering dishes and rending wood sounded before a husky yell of fright could be heard. A dog growled before yelping in pain, and yet another yell echoed. Several thumps and crashes followed, and then a higher pitched scream that ended abruptly with a sickening thud at the foot of the cellar stairs. David's body had moved almost of its own accord and in its place lay the body of Marge Dursley. She wasn't dead yet, Harry had made sure of that. Death would be too easy, too merciful. He promised himself, for David's sake, that he'd make them pray for death.

Marge's body swept towards him, leaving a streak of blood on the floor, but Harry had already turned his attention back to Vernon. He thought of everything the hateful man had done to him since he'd been imprisoned. He could not tell the passing of the days, but he could remember every broken bone, every cut, every kick. He remembered every injury with excruciating detail. Looking at his uncle, Harry saw, in his mind's eye, the torture inflicted on his fat body. He wished, with all his _power_ that everything Vernon had done to him would be returned to him ten-fold. He felt the power well up and surge out at the floating man, enveloping the his body as it had Harry's. The change was instantaneous and gruesome.

Harry blinked his eyes and, in a flash of light, his uncle's body was suddenly a mangled and bleeding mass of flesh. An eye hung loose, having been loosed from a crushed orbital lobe. His jaw was crooked and dented in several places, his lips were split so badly that his remaining teeth showed, and his nose was broken beyond recognition. Deep cuts lined his face and traveled across his body. Each limb seemed to have been broken systematically in multiple places and the hands were swollen like inflated gloves. His crotch was moist with piss and shit and blood. A bloodcurdling scream tore from his throat, bringing bile and blood up to choke it off.

Harry was worried a moment that he'd killed Vernon outright, but quickly realized that his _power_ was already doing his unrealized bidding, keeping the man alive to suffer. Harry turned away from him, barely acknowledging the thump of his body hitting the ground. Marge's unconscious body floated into the air just as her brother's had. She looked like Vernon in a wig and an ugly dress; even their mustaches looked the same. Harry ripped it from her, taking much of her upper lip with it. Her eyes flew open as a scream of pain escaped her mouth. She looked from Harry to the heap of mangled body that was her brother, then down at the ground. Marge took one last, fearful look at Harry before her eyes rolled into the back of her head and she began to convulse.

He didn't know how long he'd been standing there watching Marge seize before he heard his name being called. "Harry! Harry, snap out of it." He was being shaken now. "Harry, you're killing them! You've got to stop it!"

The hands forced him to turn around and he looked at something impossible. David stood before him, ashen faced and shaking, but not backing away. "You can't kill them, Harry, not yet. They've got to pay for what the did. Let them go." he said, almost pleading, his breathing noticeably short.

Harry felt something he didn't think he'd ever feel again: relief. It extinguished the fire that had been burning inside of him and with it he felt the _power_ retreating back into himself. His hatred and anger followed and in their place returned reason. David was right; they needed to live. They needed to live the rest of their lives knowing that he'd held their lives in his hand. They needed to pay, to suffer until the day he decided they could die.

He felt the last bit of his power envelope the brother and sister and knew that they would live. They would suffer excruciating agony and would never heal properly. This brought a smile of pure joy to his face. As his last bit of power returned to his body, exhaustion and pain rolled over Harry like a tidal wave. Darkness fell over him like a curtain while he collapsed, and the last he heard before it claimed him was David's frantic voice, telling him to stay awake.

To be continued...

**Author's Notes**

Well, there you have it. I hope you found that interesting and worth the wait. I admit that it took me way too long to get this one done, seeing as it's been nearly five months since the first chapter. In my defense, I'd written about half of this chapter before deciding to approach the chapter from a different angle. It really did turn out better, in my opinion, but I liked what I originally wrote, so it'll find its way into the story eventually.

Next chapter, we'll see the aftermath of the end of this chapter, plus we'll get into the retreading of Book 1. Don't worry about that, though, because I'm seriously going to speed all that up. I don't know about you, but I can only read so many fics that lightly rehash the first five or six chapters of Philosopher's Stone at roughly the same length as canon (this includes mine as well). Trust me, though, by the time the story gets to Hogwarts proper, you're not going to think this is just another rehash.

Thanks everyone who read and reviewed and put me on favorites. If you've got a minute and haven't already, go ahead and post a review. Questions can be posted in the forum and, as usual, I'll only be answering questions in the forum. Until next time, then...


	3. The Man With the Wand

**Hooligan**

**Chapter 3 – The Man With the Wand**

Harry jerked awake, almost toppling out of the cramped little cot he'd been sleeping on. He blinked quickly, trying to clear away the cobwebs in his mind, and reached instinctively for his glasses. His hand, however, found only air, and he immediately knew that something was wrong. Jumping from the cot, he looked wildly about the room. It's interior was dimly lit by the fading sun and even without his glasses he knew that he was in a room that he'd never seen before.

It was not a large room, even by his standards. Peeling and chipped paint covered the walls and on the floor was the dirtiest carpet he'd ever seen in his life. The ceiling looked hardly better with its damp spots, mold, and cobwebs. The only window was rather small and dirty and, on the outside, was protected by iron bars. A persistent drip came from a rusty tap on a dingy looking old washbasin. The furniture was just as shabby as the room. An old, beat up wardrobe sagged pathetically against the far wall, looking like it would collapse with the slightest touch. A small table, obviously missing a leg, leaned against the far corner, joined by two rickety looking chairs. Finally, there was a rusty metal bed with a thin mattress and the very uncomfortable looking cots, one of which Harry'd just vacated. He hadn't though it possible, but it was the worst room he'd ever been in. St. Brute's was a five star hotel in comparison.

Harry walked around the room, wondering where he was and why he'd been taken there. Was this some kind of prison cell? That would explain the bars on the window, though he'd never heard of a cell having furniture before. Perhaps, he thought, it was at a halfway house, and they were waiting for him to wake up before taking him to jail. There was no doubt in his mind that was where he was going, with everything he'd done.

Harry's thoughts immediately returned to the last things he remembered. David's ashen face, his eyes filled with fear. Marge's madly twitching face, her eyes rolling back and foam dribbling down her chin. A mass of bloody flesh that quivered and moaned in a growing puddle of bodily fluids. The memories assaulted his senses as if he were in that disgusting cellar again, and without his unquenchable hate and anger to cloud his mind, they were all the more horrifyingly vivid.

Harry sank to his knees, a numbness spreading over him. He'd almost killed Vernon and Marge. He found himself mostly indifferent to that. If anything, a small part of him was disappointed that he hadn't followed through. Harry pushed this thought aside. They would get theirs eventually, he would make sure of that. What he was really worried about, at that moment, was what had become of David. His friend had somehow remained alive, despite being shot at point-blank range, but that was no guarantee that David had survived. Harry wanted to find out, even if it meant breaking out of the dingy halfway house he'd been thrown into.

He jumped to his feet, noticing for the first time that not only was he pain free, but he could see no marks from all of the torture he'd been through. In fact, the only scars he had were the ones he'd gotten at St. Brute's and the lightning shaped one that had marked his forehead since birth. Harry wondered just how long he'd been unconscious if his body had already recovered from so many injuries. This, too, he pushed from his mind, and focused instead on escaping the room. With bars on the windows, the door was, unfortunately, the only real way to leave.

Before he could make a move towards it, though, it flew open, hitting the wall with a loud thud. Light flooded into the room, obscuring the figure of a man, rather tall, who carried something that Harry could not quite make out. The man's leg was extended, having just kicked in the door. Harry took a step back, his heart racing while his mind searched for a way out. He could feel a slight tingle in his hands, as if static electricity was gathering on them. The man froze, looking at him from beneath a hood, and fumbled whatever was in his arms, nearly dropping it. He stepped into the room and shut the door with his foot.

"Jesus, Harry, I about had a heart attack." said a very familiar voice, unceremoniously dropping what looked like two full paper grocery bags onto the bed. He pulled back the hood on his sweatshirt, revealing the face of the person that Harry last remembered seeing.

"Dave?" he said, throat constricting tightly.

"Course it's me, who else would it be?" David replied, a lopsided grin on his long, angular face. Harry thought that, just for a moment, he saw relief in his friend's blue eyes.

"But I thought ya were-"

"Shot? I was, but obviously I'm going to live." he replied with a grin. "Sit down, Harry, you look like you're going to pass out. Hungry?"

Harry nodded vigorously, remembering his starvation all too well. He sat on his cot, not taking his eyes off David, who was rummaging through one of the paper bags. David threw a package at him, which he found to be a wrapped sandwich, like those that could be found at a corner store. He ripped off the plastic wrap and tore into it.

"Slow down, or you'll eat the plastic." David said with a laugh. "So when'd you wake up?"

Harry took a huge swallow, grimacing as the dry sandwich slid down his throat. Any other time, he wouldn't have given it to a dog, but for some reason it tasted like the most delicious sandwich he'd ever eaten. "Just now." he replied, taking another big bite. "So I guess this ain't a halfway house then. Where are we?"

"London." his friend replied, getting up and walking over to the window, flicking on the single bulb that hung above the room as he passed. "Sorry for the posh accommodations, but the Paki who runs this dump doesn't ask questions as long as you've got cash."

Harry thought about this a moment. "We're on tha run then, yeah?" he said, his pulse quickening while, at the same time, worry grabbed at his insides. David nodded, though he didn't turn back to look at Harry. "So they're dead, then..."

David snorted and turned back to face him. "Nah, they're not dead. Probably should be, and I bet they'll wish they were once they wake up."

Harry was dumbstruck. "But...but I-"

"Put both of those pieces of shit into comas. The bitch, Marge, she wasn't too bad off, just some broken bones, but apparently she had a heart attack. Or a seizure. Or a stroke. The docs weren't real sure about which." A small, vindictive smile settled on David's lips. "As for your uncle, that tosser's pretty well fucked. Doc said that he shouldn't even be alive, what with all the shit that's wrong with him. I'm pretty sure he's crippled for life. You ask me, couldn't've happened to a better person."

Harry chuckled despite himself. The image of his uncle's mangled body flashed through his mind, and he savagely pushed it back. "So attempted murder then."

David shook his head as he took a seat in the rickety chair. "Not quite. Oh, don't worry, you haven't got any charges, I made sure of that. I even wiggled my way out of trouble. Three bullet wounds sure helps a self-defense case."

Harry looked confused. "But how? I mean, look what I did..."

"Come on, Harry, what was I gonna say, that you went all Carrie on them? That would've went over real well, I bet." David sighed and looked Harry in the eyes. "I told them a story that fit with what they saw. That you'd been missing, and that I broke in to find you. That I'd found you being tortured and tried to get you out, but your uncle shot me. Then I said that he and Marge got into a fight about killing you and me, and that I took the chance to fight my way out.

"I was going to run at first, you know, but my hair and blood and prints were all over the place, and with my record, I'd've had some real time on my hands. So I staged the scene. I banged up that golf club and put your uncle's blood on it. Same with that axe handle, only I wiped his prints off and put his sister's on. Then I called the police. They bought it, of course. I mean, it's not really that hard to spin a story that's mostly true anyway." He paused, letting Harry comprehend what had happened.

"So...if we're not in trouble, why are we on the run?"

David got up again and this time began pacing. "Because a man is looking for us, and I'm afraid of what might happen if he finds us."

"Why can't we go to the police?" Harry asked. David threw a glare at him. "Right...don't trust the police."

"They wouldn't be any help anyway." David replied, and this time Harry detected a trace of fear.

"Why not?" When David didn't respond, Harry prodded him further. "What happened, Dave?"

David didn't speak for several minutes. He seemed to be gathering his thoughts. "A few days after, I came back to the hospital to visit you. I'd been out most of the day. Something told me to just get out of the house, so I did. Bugged out straight to London with one of the boys. It was after visiting hours by the time I came around to see you, but I just sneaked in. I checked in your room and you looked all right, so I was just about to leave. I poked my head out the door to see if the coast was clear, and that's when I saw him. The man with the wand."

David said the last sentence with a distinct undertone of fear, such that Harry felt an involuntary chill run down his spine. The absurdity of it wasn't lost on him. If David hadn't seemed so deadly serious about what he was saying, Harry might have even laughed. "Tha man with tha wand? Yeh mean like one of those things magicians wave around?" David nodded, swallowing hard. "Well, what about it? It was just some nutter, probably just escaped from tha mental ward."

"You don't get it, Harry. He had a wand, a real _magic _wand"

Harry gave a derisive snort, but he was beginning to feel distinctly nervous. "Come off it. There's no such thing -"

"As magic?" David said, his voice suddenly loud. "Are you stupid? What the hell do you think you've been doing all this time? The _'power',_ that's what you call it, right? It's bloody magic!

"I never wanted to call it that. If' magic's real, what the fuck else is? I wanted it to be some kind of psychic power shit, like in comic books. Something scientific, something that made sense. But it's magic."

"How do ya know that?" Harry said quietly, feeling slightly cowed by David's outburst.

"Because of the man with the wand. He didn't look like a scientist or anything. Hell, he wasn't even dressed like a normal person. He looked like one of those damn wizards from D&D. A real Lord of the Rings type bloke. He might've been Gandalf, for all I know." David stopped abruptly, a distant look in his eyes. "I almost gave myself away when I saw him. He looked so damn stupid with his purple robes and that pointy hat and long white beard. I almost laughed. But he said your name while he talked to one of the doctors and a few nurses. And then he raised his wand at them and said some nonsense, and I saw a light flash. I didn't even know what to think until I felt something wash over me, like heat, but it wasn't hot, and it felt like those times you'd do something with your _power_.

"Then he started telling them things, and they were looking at him like they were hypnotized or something. I only caught a bit of it, but it was enough. He was using the _power_, magic, to change their memories of _you_." Harry stiffened, his eyes widening, and he suddenly felt the same fear that David was feeling. "I had to get you out of there, but the man wasn't that far away. I couldn't just sneak you out. So I called the security desk and told them a strange man was walking around on the floor, talking like he was mad and threatening people. They must've thought he was a mental patient, because they were up there in a flash. Sent about four or five people even.

"I couldn't wake you, so I wheeled you out on a wheelchair while they distracted him. He must've seen us just before the lift closed, though. We were halfway into the car park when he came bursting out of the hospital doors. He looked...scary. " David was clenching his fists so tightly that his knuckles were bone white. "If it hadn't been raining, he might've even heard me breaking into one of the cars. I don't think I've ever hot-wired a car that fast. Or driven that fast. I drove us away from there and didn't look back. Didn't even slow down until we passed Epsom. We've been laying low ever since."

Harry nodded, feeling numb. He'd always wondered if there was anyone else with his _power_, had even really hoped for it. But this man, this _wizard,_ was after him. He had no idea why, but chances were that it wasn't anything good. The thought of running away from the man angered Harry for a reason that he couldn't define. "How long have we been gone?"

"A couple weeks. You've been asleep most of the time."

"Jesus Christ, I've been out two weeks?" Harry gasped.

"You were pretty banged up, mate. Docs said you were almost dead from dehydration and malnutrition. And that's not even counting all the shit your uncle did to you. You should be dead now." David said solemnly. "Since then, you've been eating enough for ten people, and your injuries have been disappearing. I'd say it was a fuckin' miracle if I didn't know about your magic."

"Well then, since I'm awake now, I think we can go back to Little Whinging."

"Why the hell would we do that?" David asked incredulously.

"To see what this wizard bloke wants, and then deal with 'im." Harry's voice had a hard edge and his eyes flashed with anger.

"You are off your nut." David said coolly. "Going back is just going to get us caught."

"Hey, if he tries anything, I've got my _power_. Yeh saw what I did to my uncle and aunt." Harry retorted.

David snorted. "Yeah, I saw it all right. Can you do it again, though? Remember how much practice you had to do to just get simple stuff right? This was an old wizard just casually changing people's memories. He'd probably blow whatever you can do out of the water."

"Fine! What do we do then, since yeh've all the answers?" Harry said irritably. David didn't blink at his attitude.

"Now you're awake, we'll keep moving. I've been feeling like I've seen some other weirdos dressed in robes nearby. Figures there'd be more than just one wizard." David stood and walked back to the window, looking out onto the London streets below. "In the meantime, we're going to figure out how you did what you did in that cellar. If you can get any good at it, then maybe we can go back to Little Whinging. Though why you'd want to is beyond me."

The familiar predatory grin was back on Harry's face. "There are a couple people who I haven't properly paid back. Besides, I'd hate to miss it if Marge or Vernon wake up."

Harry hardly had anything to grin about as the week progressed. Being on the run was not at all the fun and games he'd envisioned. Not a day after Harry regained consciousness, David had hustled them out of the sad little room without explanation. Only when they'd gone several stops down the line on the Underground did he explain why they'd left in such a hurry. There had apparently been a couple of men wearing robes snooping about the street outside, and they had been inexpertly disguising their wands. This proved two things: that the man with the wand was not the only "wizard" around, and that they were definitely looking for him.

They continued to see men in robes periodically as they moved around the city. This rather limited their money-making ability, which generally amounted to petty theft and pickpocketing. Harry was quite good at these things, having the benefit of his _power,_ but they quickly learned that it drew the men in robes like flies to honey. Whenever this happened, they immediately relocated to the other side of the city. Sometimes, David would have him purposely use his power well away from where they were living in order to confuse their pursuers. In all, it was a tiring, nerve-wracking, and uncomfortable situation, made all the more dangerous by the bobbies who had also taken up the search.

Harry's growing paranoia and fatigue from all the moving around did absolutely nothing to help his growing frustration at not being able to manifest his _power _like had before his short coma He still hesitated to call it magic. Like David, knowing that the man with the wand could do magic did not make him particularly eager to upend his world view. Practically speaking, though, he and David both realized that the revelation greatly expanded the potential of his little talent. The only problem (besides the fact that using it made him a beacon for the robed men) was that he couldn't get it to behave as it had against Vernon and Marge. Something was different about that time, David was sure of it.

"You were automatically healing yourself." He said casting a significant look at Harry. They were both exhausted, having spent the day scrounging for food and picking pockets. "I mean, you could always bounce back faster than others, but look at you. No scars at all from what happened. Hell, you still have the scars from St. Brute's, and they weren't nearly as bad as what Dursley did to you."

Harry shrugged, but he knew his friend had a point. What he hadn't told David just yet was that he could feel a definite change in his _power_. He felt as if something had broken loose, some kind of dam had broken down, and he could feel magic coursing through him, stronger than ever. Paradoxically, it was even harder than ever to do the slightest bit of magic. He admitted as much to David. As he was wont to do when a real puzzle presented itself, David became silent, a glazed look coming over his face. Harry knew better than to interrupt , and it was a half hour before his friend spoke again.

"There _was_ something different, not just what you did with your magic. _How_ you did it was wrong. Or right, I guess, seeing what happened."

Harry's eyes widened and he jumped from his seat. "I wasn't chantin'!"

"Right. You weren't saying anything, no spells at all. It just worked for you. So if it isn't words that make your power work, what does?" asked David, though from his tone Harry figured that he'd already worked it out and was gently pushing him to do the same.

"I've...I've got to want something to happen. Really want something to happen, I mean. That's why chanting helped. By the time I got it to work, I really, really wanted it to work." said Harry, looking questioningly at David. "And when I did that...stuff in the cellar, "

David scratched his chin. "Could be. What do you remember thinking or feeling when you were using your magic?"

Harry closed his eyes, feeling the memory wash over him like a cold wave. "Hate. And sadness. Rage. I wanted to torture them and hear them scream. I wanted to kill them." he said, unable to contain a slight shudder. "It was...it _hurt_. Like I was burning up with hate and rage. That's when I felt the magic growing and pouring out of me, and then it started doing anything that came to my mind."

David leaned back in his chair, his eyes distant again as he stroked his chin. This time, though, a small smirk grew on the side of his mouth, a sign that he'd had a true revelation. "Well that's it, then, isn't it? It makes sense willpower activates, probably even controls magic. But what you did, Harry, that was _emotion. _Your magic must've, oh, I dunno, multiplied or something. It grew larger because of what you were feeling. And since you really wanted to kill them, it obeyed your commands. It makes sense."

Harry looked skeptical. "So what, I just get angry?" he said with a snort.

"Or happy, or sad. I dunno, but think about every time you used your magic and it was powerful, and I'll bet you were emotional." David said, throwing up his arms. "Look, it's worth a shot. You can't do worse than you've been doing anyway."

"I can't try it anyway, remember? _They'll_ come."

"Right. Well tomorrow we'll go to somewhere really crowded and try it. Should be able to give the bastards the slip again."

Harry was not the least bit surprised when David's theory turned out to be correct. With willpower alone, it was very difficult to use his magic, but he could feel that it had become slightly easier. Pouring emotion into it, though, actually made it too easy. His magic erupted and flowed out of his control, making the rock he was trying to levitate shatter. He would clearly need to learn not only how to activate his magic but also how to tightly control his emotions. For now he knew that his assault on Vernon and Marge had been largely due to his single-minded hatred running amok with tremendous power behind it.

An unexpected additional benefit of this experiment became apparent immediately. Beforehand, they'd mapped out exactly how they'd escape when the wizards come searching. While Harry practiced, David kept a sharp lookout over the street outside. He was extremely tense, especially since, after an hour, he had seen neither hide nor hair of a wizard. He left the rooftop where he'd kept his silent vigil and returned to the shabby room they'd rented, only to find a startling and rather impressive sight. Harry sat in the middle of the room, surrounded by the entire contents of the room, which floated about two feet off the ground. His face was a somewhat terrifying mask of concentration and pure hatred. As soon as David entered the room, he was immediately lifted from the ground and held immobile in mid-air.

"Harry. Harry! God damn it, Harry, snap out of it!" David shouted. The black haired boy's eyes flew open, his face setting into it's normal blankness, and he jumped slightly when everything in the room crashed back to the ground. He jumped to his feet, a flicker of fear passing across his face.

"They're here already? Why didn't yeh get me sooner?" he said, rushing to the window to look out.

"Calm down, no one's here for us."

Harry looked confused. "What the hell then, mate? Yeh know we've only got about ten minutes to work."

David flipped over a chair and sat down. "About that, Harry; you've been at it for over an hour, and I haven't seen one wizard since you started."

Harry stared at him. "That don't make sense."

"Yeah, I know. Did you do a new spell or something?" Dave frowned at Harry, who shook his head negatively. "Something's different. Either they can't find us, or they're not trying to find us."

Harry snorted. "No way they've given up, not after all the close calls, and they keep coming no matter how often I do magic in a day."

"Agreed. _That man_ wants you badly enough to send his men around London, no reason he'd stop now. So what's different now? Why haven't they come running when you're doing your spell? "

Harry shrugged. "Nothin's different."

David "No, we did. We moved to this place yesterday after they almost caught us near Hyde Park. And that's the last time we saw any of 'em."

"They can't detect me. Which is crap, since they've been all over us before. So why not now? I mean, why give up after tryin' so hard?"

David shrugged, but Harry could tell that he was thinking hard. After several minutes, he spoke. "You're probably right. It doesn't make sense for them to just give up. The old man definitely wants you for something, and he's got the power to keep looking no matter what, if all those wizards are any indication. So if they're not beating the door down right now, they might not be able to track you down, not like they were before. Did you do something?

"No, mate, not a thing." said Harry, shaking his head. He gave David a slightly worried look. "Dave, this is a good thing, right? I mean, if they can't detect me, we don't have to move around all the time. Maybe I can finally get the hang of this magic thing."

David fidgeted and said nothing. Finally, he stood and walked over to the dirty window, peering out from behind the dingy curtain. "I don't like it."

"But why -"

"Think, Harry! They've been chasing us, following your magic, and now suddenly they don't? I mean, yeah, maybe you're right, maybe they can't see you." David turned and gave Harry a hard stare. "Or maybe they wised up, and they're waiting for us to relax and get careless. We're on the run; we can't afford to do that."

Harry nodded, biting his lip. "So...we're outta here, then?"

David shook his head. "Not yet. If they're gonna give us a breather, I say we take it. But we stay alert and we pay attention and we keep our heads down. Let them play their hand first."

"Okay. I'm gonna keep tryin' to figure out this magic. I'm guessin' we'll need it before long."

The next few days passed quickly for them as they set about preparing themselves to inevitably run again. David had insisted that he not leave the room and instead work on his magic full time while they had a respite, so that's what Harry did, and it was paying dividends. He found that just wishing for something to happen was no longer sufficient, but extreme focus on his desires seemed to do the trick. With a strong emotion, though, magic became easier to perform but equally as hard to control. His biggest problem was trying to channel a strong emotion (generally hate or anger) while still focusing on a "spell" enough to pull it off. It seemed that, for now, he could have one or the other, but not both.

Meanwhile, David spent most of the days away from the room. What he was doing, Harry couldn't say, and David wasn't talking much about it either. He did notice, though, that David brought food back everyday, and his well trained eyes saw an increasingly larger wallet on his friend. David was obviously getting money from somewhere, but how and from where Harry couldn't guess. Harry accepted the non-committal answers to his questions without a fuss, as this was a sure sign that his friend was working on something big that he wasn't quite ready to share yet.

And then, four days after they'd settled into the new room, a bigger and not as welcome surprise greeted them. It came in a most unexpected way, a large grey-brown owl that swooped into the door after David one night. It landed with a muffled thump onto the table, startling Harry so thoroughly that he fell over backwards with a surprised yelp. The owl looked down regally at him and thrust it's leg forward, and Harry saw that a thick yellow envelope tied to the leg. Before he could reach up to get it, though, the bird took flight just in time to avoid being hit by a flying boot. It perched precariously on the ratty wardrobe, looking supremely affronted, while David took off his other boot and prepared to hurl it at the bird.

"What the bloody hell are ya doin'?" Harry said angrily.

"What's it look like? Trying to get this stupid bird out of here." David threw the other boot, but it sailed wide.

"Well stop it, ya cuntin' tosspot!" Harry exclaimed. "I don't think this is a normal owl."

He pointed to the thick letter dangling from the owl's leg. David looked at it with confusion. "What the hell...is this some sort of messenger bird? This is some shit out of the god damned 1800s."

"Yeah, but who'd send post with a bloody owl?" asked Harry. It was a few moments before they both looked at each other with dark scowls. "Wizards."

"Makes sense, anyone else would probably use the regular post. So this might be a trick." David said, eying the bird suspiciously

Harry frowned, then shrugged. "If it's a magic trick, I might be able to stop it, now that I can sorta feel magic."

David looked skeptical but nodded. "All right, let's see what this is about."

At his words, the bird flapped down from its perch and landed again on the table. Harry, however, still didn't take the letter. "There's magic on it, a lot of it."

"I thought so. Can you do anything about it?"

"Dunno. Gimme a sec."

Several hours later, an exhausted and sweat-soaked Harry threw himself onto the bed, which had moved, along with the rest of the furnishings, to the opposite side of the room. "Clean." he gasped. "It's clean."

"Finally!" David said. He ripped the note off the bird's leg. "Now get the hell out, you, and don't come back unless you want to be dinner." The owl ruffled its feathers indignantly and flapped its great wings, hitting David in the face as it departed.

Harry gave his friend a questioning look. "Mate, yeh know yeh were talkin' to a fuckin' bird, right?"

"That wasn't just any bird, it was a wizard's bird. No real owl acts like that. It knew what I was saying."

"Riiiight." Harry sat up, wiping his brow. "Okay, so let's see what's in this little trap."

Harry tore open the yellow envelope, noting that the texture wasn't quite that of paper. The contents were far less exciting than the magic on the envelope had suggested. Inside were several more sheets of the the same stuff from which the envelope was made. He was not so surprised to see his name on the top sheet. Harry unfolded them, passing the lower sheets to David, and began to read the top sheet. He stared at it, reading it several times before barking a short, mirthless laugh and tossing it onto the table. David sat down heavily, still staring at the sheets.

"I was right." David said finally, his hands shaking slightly. "Wizards and witches. And there are damn sure lots more of 'em if there's a _fucking school for them_."

"Yeah, and they know I'm one of 'em. I've got a fucking invite to this Hogwarts." Harry slid the letter over to David.

"Okay, so we know two wizards now. That's a start." said David.

"This Dumbledore sounds like a puffed old geezer with all these fucking titles." snorted Harry. David didn't look amused.

"You know what this means, right?" asked David seriously. Harry shook his head. "It means they know where we are. That owl came straight to us."

Harry scowled. "Damn it, what're they waiting for then?"

"I dunno, Harry. You're right, if they know where we are, why not come get us? And why bother with putting a trap on this letter? It makes no sense."

Harry crushed the letter in his hand. "Well we're not waiting around for them, right? Right?"

David didn't speak for a few minutes, his face screwed up with concentration. "They've got all the pieces and they want to catch us. Why aren't they moving in?" he said to himself. "Something's not adding up, and I don't want to make a move until we know what it is. We're secure here, you can practice your magic without worrying someone will come around It's their move; let's let them make their move."

Harry looked at him skeptically. "Yeah, okay. But I'm still doing something about that fucking owl. I don't want any more of those damn things flyin' in here." he said, sitting down to concentrate his magic on this new spell.

Several more days passed without further incident. Knowing that they were being watched but not being able to find the surveillance played havoc with their nerves. Worse still for Harry was being cooped up in the room while David spent most of the day away. His friend's reticence in sharing what he was up to became less tolerable by the hour. Harry hated being left in the dark, even if it was by a friend who'd saved his life and had his best interests in mind. He decided to confront David about what he was doing when he returned to the room that evening.

But his friend didn't return to the room that night or the next, and Harry knew something had gone wrong. With the fast decision-making borne of a hard life, he quickly prepared to vacate the premises, hoping against hope that he could make his way around London, find his friend, and get him out of whatever trouble he'd gotten into. He couldn't justify it rationally, but his gut instinct told him that wizards were involved. Harry only hoped that he could control his magic like he had against his aunt and uncle, otherwise he wouldn't stand a chance against his pursuers.

There was a knock at the door, and instantly Harry knew his time was up. No one ever knocked on doors at this place, not even the landlord. It was a quick way to get filled with holes by a jumpy tenant. Only policemen would knock on the door, and they wouldn't wait for an answer before breaking the door in. No, this was someone new, and this new person reeked of magic. He'd waited too late.

Harry ignored the knocking, instead silently creeping towards the room's small, barred window. He and David had spent a little time loosening the bars up since they'd arrived, and Harry hoped his magic could break them off completely. He slowly slid the window up, ignoring the more insistent knocking, and began pushing against the bars with all his strength. They began to give way as his magic came to the fore, screeching as they rubbed against the brick exterior. They were proving to be far stronger than he expected, as if the previous efforts to loosen them hadn't happened at all. A quick glance at the bars showed that, quite impossibly, they were brand new and securely bolted as if they'd been installed the day before. This had hardly registered in his brain when the room door banged open, startling him. A feeling of utter dread filled his stomach as he turned to face the open door. A tall, thin old man walked into the room, and even though he'd never seen him before, Harry knew that this was _him_: The Man with the Wand.

He seemed, at first, exactly as Harry had expected, but little details did not quite match up with the image he'd built up in his mind. The man was indeed quite old, with a weathered and wrinkled face, a long mane of silver hair, and an equally long silver beard. He wore garish orange robes with a pattern of twinkling stars, all of which incomprehensibly danced about. A matching, pointed hat sat atop his head. His hands, which he held clasped in front of him, were thin and wrinkled and dotted with liver spots. His eyes, though, were quite unlike what Harry had expected. Instead of sinister orbs filled with malice, he saw the eyes of a kindly old man which twinkled in a friendly manner from behind half-moon shaped spectacles. His former look of worry was quickly replaced by a genial smile that matched the warmth in the eyes as he looked at Harry. In all, it gave him the look of a mild-mannered grandfather, not a malevolent sorcerer.

"Hello, Harry." he said pleasantly. "I'd ask if I could come in, but as I've already done so, I'll instead beg your pardon for barging in without asking."

Harry wasn't fooled for one second by the nice old man act. He'd been around too many manipulative adults to fall for it. This man had come to kidnap and do God only knew what to him. Harry was new to the whole magic thing, but he had begun learning to recognize magical power, and the closer the man came to him, the more oppressive was his aura of magic. Harry took a step back, his gaze flicking behind the old man, while he reached out and strained his magic against the bars behind him. The man's sighed, looking at the open window.

"Yes, I thought you might have tried that, so I took the liberty of repairing the damage to the bars and placing a sticking charm on them." the old man explained.

Harry's anger flared despite the icy fear he felt creeping into his gut. "Let me out." he growled menacingly.

"I'm afraid I can't do that, Harry. There is much we must discuss." said the man, a shadow seeming to pass over his pleasant features.

He quickly whipped out his wand flicked it in Harry's direction. Something seemed to pull him away from the window, which slammed itself shut. In that instant Harry's fear morphed into full out panic. The effortless way the man used his magic was frightening. He wondered if this was how Vernon and Marge had felt as he'd visited his terrible retribution upon them. In the face of this blinding fear, Harry felt his control over his magic slipping out of his grasp, and he hated the man even more for it.

The man glanced around the room, taking in the shabby interior with thinly veiled disgust. "You are a rather difficult young man to find, Harry, most difficult indeed."

With another flick of the wand, the door slammed shut just as Harry took a step towards it. "The door will not open, Harry. I'm afraid I cannot allow you to slip away again."

Harry backed against the wall, his fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles were white. "W-why? S-so yeh can s-screw around with me head, like yeh did to those people at the hospital?"

"No, not unless you force me to." The man's face was an inscrutable mask as he stared at Harry. "Despite what your friend David Foster may have told you, I'm here to help you. You've caused quite a stir with both wizards and muggles. I've managed to deflect most of the trouble, but your running away has made matters rather more difficult. May I ask where your friend David Foster is?"

"None of yer fucking business!" Harry spat angrily, his body tensing to fight. "I ain't tellin' ya a goddamned thing!"

The old man sighed wearily. "I see that you will not be cooperative. Forgive me, Harry, but I must do this, for your sake. _Petrificus Totalus!_"

The wand flicked at him again and this time a bolt of orange light shot from it, hitting a surprised Harry square in the chest. He felt the horrible sensation of tingling in his body, as if all his flesh were falling asleep, then his arms and legs snapped together and his entire body went rigid. He fell back for the briefest of moments before an invisible force righted him. Pure, unadulterated hate radiated from his eyes as he stared at the old man.

"Better. Now then, I ask again, where is David Foster, Harry? If you cooperate, I will remove the full body bind. Blink twice if you agree."

But Harry was hardly listening. Instead, he felt the hate rising in him, and the hate made him focus on his magic. Already he could feel his body fighting off the man's spell.

"Come now, Harry, please be reasonable. While I admire your loyalty to him, he appears to have had an extremely negative influence upon you. He's a loose end that must be tied if we are to make things right."

"RAAAGH!" Harry shouted, feeling the cascade of magic flowing from him as he broke the spell. "Go fuck yerself, yeh fuckin' wanker!"

The old man looked astounded for just a moment before a grim look settled on his face. He raised his wand again, but this time there was no bolt of light. Instead, something invisible wrapped itself around his body and squeezed him uncomfortably as it floated him a couple of feet in the air. The man had turned away and sat heavily on a nearby chair.

"You are too angry and hateful for the power you have. Your attack on your uncle and aunt and your display just now proves it to me beyond a shadow of a doubt. I had hoped that reform school would help you see the error of your ways, but it has only made you worse. And since it was I who first placed you with the Dursleys, I who allowed you to grow to what you are today, I must take responsibility for this entire fiasco and take steps to make things right."

Harry's eyes widened. "_You _put me with the damn Dursleys?" Harry snarled angrily.

"Yes. You required protection that only your Aunt Petunia could provide."

"I needed protection _from_ them, yeh fuckin' idiot!" bellowed Harry, almost delirious with hate. "I went to St. Brute's because of them! Four years of hell because you put me with them! It's all your fault!"

The old man didn't say anything for a few moments. "You are right, of course. I hope one day you can understand that I did what I thought was for the best." the old man nodded sadly. "When you're older, you'll understand why, and perhaps you will find it in your heart to forgive what I'm about to do."

"HELP! SOMEONE HELP ME!" Harry screamed desperately, thrashing wildly against the invisible restraints. "I'll do anything yeh want, just don't take my memories!"

"Your memories and your personality are the problem, I'm afraid." the man shook his head. "I must do this for own good."

"RAAAGGH!!! I SWEAR TO GOD, I'M GONNA FUCKIN' KILL YA!"

"You don't know how much it pains me to hear you say that." Dumbledore said sadly, his voice full of regret. "But you must be protected Harry, even from yourself. I'm sorry to have to do this to you, but it is for your own good. When you wake again, you will not remember a thing."

Harry continued thrashing as Dumbledore lifted his wand, feeling a painful mixture of panic, fear, anger, and hate. He yelled and screamed impotently, feeling a familiar blazing heat spread over his body. Dumbledore only shook his head sadly, pointed the wand at Harry, and said "_Obliviate!_"

-------------------------

The previous few days had been the happiest of his life, and Harry was still trying to decide whether this revelation was a good or bad thing.

On one hand, his fortunes had improved considerably. He'd been blissfully free of his Uncle Vernon, who'd taken ill several weeks prior and was still bedridden at the hospital. Out of the blue, his aunt had told him to leave his normal room, the cupboard under the stairs, and allowed him to move into Dudley's second bedroom. Dudley, who normally went out of his way to torment him, seemed too conflicted to do more than make nasty remarks. The people of Privet Drive even seemed to be nicer, despite his well known (and undeserved, in his opinion) reputation for being a delinquent. However, these things all paled in comparison to what happened when he turned eleven.

For once, his birthday was actually acknowledged by someone, who'd even given him his very first birthday cake. The person in question, one Rubeus Hagrid, had come bearing more than just cake, though. The a giant of a man had come to deliver a letter and in the process had brought the truth that Harry's aunt Petunia had been hiding from him all his life. This truth explained quite a bit about who he was, why his "family" seemed to hate him, and why odd things always seemed to happen around him.

Harry, as it turned out, was a wizard, and the odd things were the result of magic that he was unconsciously using. What was more, there was a hidden world of wizards that his parents had belonged to, and he would soon be joining it as a student at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

On the other hand, he'd finally learned the truth about the fate of his parents, and it hadn't been pleasant. Contrary to what his aunt and uncle had insisted and known was untrue his entire life, Hagrid had told him that they'd been killed by an evil wizard named Voldemort, and that the same man had also tried to kill him when he was a baby. For some reason, which no one could properly explain, Voldemort's killing curse had defied logic and rebounded upon him, killing the dark wizard and marking Harry with a scar shaped like a lightning bolt on his forehead. For this reason alone, Harry was quite famous in the wizarding world, and he saw this firsthand during his trip to Diagon Alley, a center of wizard commerce in London.

Harry wasn't quite sure what to think of being famous for something he couldn't remember. After spending his whole life with people that only barely tolerated his existence, part of him was pleased that someone somewhere was actually glad he was around. Another part was oddly unsettled when these feeling arose, however, and he wasn't quite sure why. Something about his fame and the way wizards looked upon him made Harry feel nervous, as if there were something important that he wasn't quite seeing.

Besides that, he'd been having throbbing headaches and strange dreams ever since he'd come home from St. Brute's. Not that Harry was a stranger to odd dreams; he'd long had recurring dreams about a flying motorcycle, an eerie green light, and a high, disembodied voice. His scar even twinged slightly every so often when he'd have these dreams. Those things were now explained easily enough by magic and the events of the fateful Halloween when his parents had been murdered by the Dark Lord Voldemort.

These new dreams were different, though, and they were paradoxically both clear and muddled in their details. Harry remembered only snatches of them here or there; a kindly old man wearing a wizard's cap, the angry face of his uncle looking down on him, the dark cellar of Number Four, and a vaguely familiar person lying on a concrete floor, shaking uncontrollably. These dreams seemed just as rooted in magic, only they were far more frightening and always ended in nearly intolerable migraines. Even trying to think of the details of the dreams caused his head to pound slightly. Harry wisely pushed all thoughts of them from his mind, not wanting to spend whole days of his dwindling summer vacation in bed.

One Tuesday in August, a few weeks before he was due to head off to Hogwarts, Harry found himself alone at home. Aunt Petunia had been forced to get a job to avoid depleting the household savings, as the dole wouldn't cover all of the household expenses, even with extra dispensations for Vernon being unable to work due to illness. Since she couldn't afford to pay anyone to look after them, Aunt Petunia took to leaving Dudley and Harry alone during the day with strict instructions to not leave the house. This was a generally positive development in Harry's opinion, since any time not spent around a Dursley was definitely a good thing.

Of course, there was still Dudley to contend with, but his run in with the business end of Hagrid's pink umbrella (which Harry suspected contained the pieces of the large man's snapped wand) made the rotund boy much easier to deal with. Harry imagined that having a real pig's tail put on his backside made Dudley wary of annoying him. After all, Harry had done a bit of magic accidentally over the years, and even his normally dull-witted cousin was smart enough to not press his luck now that his victim had a wand. He'd thought briefly of doing something to pay the boy back for years of bullying, but his conscience was apparently stronger than ever and gave him awful headaches when he dwelled on these thoughts too much. Instead, Harry let the threat of magic hang over Dudley, conveniently neglecting to tell him or Petunia that he wasn't allowed to do magic outside of school.

Because he knew he could get away with it, Dudley always left the house when his mother went to work. Harry took this opportunity to have the run of the place. He ate and drank whatever he wanted, knowing that his aunt would never question him because of Dudley's ridiculously large appetite. Knowing he'd get in trouble if he went out, and since he had no friends anyway, Harry spent his time watching the telly or playing games on Dudley's top of the Nintendo game system. Harry actually played the Nintendo more than Dudley, who'd given up on it after failing to pass the first level in Super Mario Bros. 3. He was hoping to finish the game before going to Hogwarts just so he could rub it in Dudley's face. His cousin hated being shown up by Harry almost as much as he now hated magic, and Harry had often been punished whenever he did anything well or better than Dudley.

The door bell suddenly rang, startling Harry out of his concentration. For a moment he panicked, thinking that Dudley had returned home early. Reminding himself that they wouldn't ring the bell if they had, he calmed himself and went to answer the door. Through the window next to the door he could see a swarthy man who might have been Indian or Arab. He stood about average height, wearing a smart gray suit with a starched white shirt and a red tie. His face sported a neatly trimmed beard and mustache, flecked with gray, and a red turban wrapped around his head. Wire-rimmed glasses and a black briefcase completed the look of a bank manager or some other mid-level functionary. Harry was only slightly surprised; while Indians weren't exactly common in Little Whinging, the town did have a healthy number of kebab shops and corner markets, so it wasn't entirely unusual to see them. Curious as to what the man wanted, he opened the door slightly.

"Erm, hello?." he said firmly, looking up into the man's face.

"Begging your pardon, please," replied the man, his slightly sing-song voice and accent not obscuring his words too much, "but I am looking for Mrs. Petunia Dursley. I am having much business to discuss regarding her husband's medical care."

Harry tried not to look as if he recognized what the man was talking about. He was home alone, after all, and knew better than to let the man know it. "I, err, I think you've got the wrong house." he said.

The man regarded him carefully, and Harry thought he could see the gears turning in the man's head, deciding whether to believe Harry's lie. "No, I am certain this is the correct house. Please be letting me in and fetching your aunt."

Harry frowned. "How'd you know -" he stopped abruptly, looking nervous. "Sorry, wrong house."

He moved to close the door, but found it wouldn't budge. He looked down to see the man's nice leather shoe blocking the door. Harry looked back up, anger on his face, only to see something that made the blood drain from his face and his stomach twist with fear. A small pistol pointed directly at his face, and he involuntarily took a step back. He held his finger up to his lips, indicating that Harry should stay quiet. The man's face was a blank mask, but his eyes held a dangerous glint, and Harry knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he would not hesitate to shoot.

"I am very sorry, but I am to deliver a letter. It is very important, and I must have a response before I leave." the man said calmly, as if he were not holding Harry at gunpoint. He gestured into the house with a quick jerk of the gun. With a hard swallow, Harry backed away from the door, his mind racing with fear as it tried to find a way to escape. The man entered the home smoothly and closed the door behind him, his gaze nor the gun wavering from pointing at Harry. He flinched as the man quickly reached into his jacket, only to see the man produce a simple white envelope, set it on the small half-circle foyer table, and slide it towards him.

Harry took the envelope, his hands trembling slightly, and opened it along the flap. Inside was a single sheet of lined paper filled with smallish and slanted print. He felt an odd little tingle, like static raising hairs on his arm, only it seemed to come from the paper. Ignoring this, he read a few lines of the letter before looking up at the man, anger beginning to show in his face. "What is this, huh?"

"Please finish the reading before you ask any questions." said the man tonelessly, shaking his head in warning. With no other choice but to comply, Harry continued with the letter.

_**Harry,**_

_**I know why you're having weird headaches, why your uncle is in the hospital, and why you can' t remember anything from last month. Someone's tampered with your mind, trying to make you forget the truth. I'm not going to let that stand. I intend to help you get revenge on the people who did this to you, but the first thing that needs to be done is restoring your memories. I won't beg you to believe me. You know about magic and wizards now, so you know that it's possible to erase memories. If the safeguards worked, though, we can undo it. That, however, will require that you trust me.**_

_**Right now, you're being watched by at least three wizards, maybe as many as five. I'm pretty sure they're looking for me and making sure you don't get close to the truth. Your house and this whole neighborhood is too dangerous for me to expose myself, so you're going to have to come to me.**_

_**If you want answers and you want to find out who has been interfering with your life, go to the library in Little Whinging and ask for your messages at the front desk. They will give you my instructions, which you must follow to the letter. I know this doesn't make much sense, and it probably sounds dodgy. I wouldn't blame you if you decided to ignore this letter entirely. Either way, my agent will not force you. If you are willing to hear me out, tell him "I'm sorry, I think my aunt has to sign this." Otherwise, tell him "Okay, I'll sign for it." I hope you make the right choice.**_

_**Dave**_

_**P.S. - My agent is not there to hurt you in any way. The gun is for his protection and to ensure that you cooperate. Don't make any moves to escape or to raise an alarm because I can't guarantee your safety if you do. His instructions are to deliver the letter and to wait for your response.**_

Harry stared at the letter, his breath coming very quickly in his nervousness. Common sense was warring with logic in his head as he considered what he'd read. On one hand, he was standing in the foyer of his own home, held at gunpoint and forced to read a letter from someone he probably didn't know who was asking him for his trust and to meet up. Only an idiot would follow through on that offer. Still, for as insane as it seemed, the letter contained too much information that he knew to be true. He _had _been having headaches, and he really couldn't recall why Vernon was in the hospital or much of what he'd done the last month. In fact, thinking about it all made his head throb uncomfortably. And, oddly enough, this "Dave" seemed familiar, though Harry did not know anyone by that name.

More intriguingly, the letter spoke of wizards. If he was to be believed, this "Dave" not only knew about magic, but had also been watching Harry and had noticed wizards trailing him. From what Harry had seen of wizards, none of them would be particularly good at blending in among muggles, so the fact that he hadn't spotted one on the blandly normal streets surrounding Privet Drive made him very, very concerned. Something was definitely going on, now that he thought about it, and Harry knew he needed to get to the bottom of it.

Harry folded the letter and looked up at the man. "I'm sorry, I think my aunt has to sign for this." he said. For the briefest of moments, Harry thought he saw a flash of triumph in the man's eyes, but it vanished as quickly as it came.

"Very good. I will return when Mrs. Dursley is at home." he said with a nod as he stowed the pistol in an inner pocket of his jacket. He handed Harry one more piece of paper before exiting the house as smoothly and quickly as he'd entered. Harry quickly unfolded and read it.

_**Good man. This is just the first step, but the others won't be so easy. Just follow my instructions and everything will be revealed. Remember, someone is listening in on you at all times, so don't say anything out of the ordinary, and don't mention where you're going. Don't write anything down. Don't rush over to the library now. Wait until your aunt gets back. Act as normal as possible. You will pick up a tail, but don't worry about it. I'll take care of them.**_

The next hour passed at a snail's pace, or at least it seemed to for Harry. He wanted to talk through the situation, but if the house really was bugged, it'd give him away, just as "Dave" had warned. Instead, he half-heartedly played Nintendo until he heard a car pull into the drive-way. With the speed borne from years of practice, he returned the game system to it's place and arranged the controller so that it looked exactly the way it had earlier in the day. He'd only just set foot in his room and closed the door when he heard the front door open. The sound of Dudley whining for food floated up the stairs. As the voices of his aunt and cousin headed into the kitchen, Harry quickly fastened the locks on his door and stole down the stairs, skipping the creaky step halfway down. Another few silent steps and he was out the door. Knowing his aunt's complete lack of care where he was concerned, it'd probably be midnight before she would check on him.

He was on pins and needles the entire two miles to the library, his paranoia causing him to look twice at everyone he came across. It didn't help that everyone stared at him as he walked past, and though he was used to this after suffering it for years, he now attributed only sinister motives to the behavior. Harry was startled at first to realize he didn't recognize any of the people before he remembered that, thanks to his years at St. Brutus', the only person he had seen on a regular basis was batty old Ms. Figg. He dared not turn around and give away that he was on the lookout for anyone, and each step forward made him more and more certain he was being followed. It was a feeling that he couldn't explain that proved that "Dave" hadn't been joking. Only when he was several hundred feet away from the library did he feel like an oppressive weight had lifted from his chest.

Inside, he quickly received the message from the front desk. It was a short me

_**Go to the third floor and head for the private A/V rooms at the far end of the floor. Go into Room 7.**_

A few short minutes later, Harry cautiously approached the aforementioned room. This end of the floor was mostly empty, and he felt rather exposed. He'd come this far, though, and was determined to see what this "Dave" had to show him. He wasn't exactly helpless though; inside the front pocket of his too-large jeans was his wand. He didn't know any spells yet, but he figured he could shoot sparks like he had when he'd first gotten the wand. If he was lucky, it'd distract someone long enough to let him get away. With no small amount of trepidation, he pushed open the door.

The light was already on inside. It was a small and private viewing room, about the size of a walk-in closet. A student desk sat on both the left and right walls, each with a tape recorder and a pair of headphones. A nineteen inch television sat atop a cart and on the cart's lower shelf was a video cassette player. Both of these machines were switched on, though all that was showing on the television was static. Beyond this, the room was empty, save for yet another folded piece of paper on one of the desks.

_**Good, you've made it this far. I know you were expecting to meet me in person, but it won't be safe to do that until you've gotten rid of the tracking charms. You'll have to do that yourself. That's the next part. I've left a tape in the player that will explain what you need to do. Lock the door and put the headphones on, then start watching the tape..**_

The door securely locked, Harry settled into the chair, noticing for the first time a slight tingling at the back of his head. He shook his head, willing the nerves away. He was not going to stop now, not so close to...he wasn't quite sure what. He pressed play on the player and sat back.

On the screen, the static suddenly blinked away, replaced by two people sitting on rickety-looking chairs in a very poor looking room. Harry was shocked into speechlessness. One of them was an older boy he vaguely recognized from around the neighborhood and somewhere else he couldn't remember. The other boy he definitely recognized, and it was this recognition that shocked Harry to the core. He was looking at _himself. _Only, he'd never been in that room, not that he could remember...

"What the hell?" he whispered, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. A painful throb pulsed through his head and he squeezed his eyes shut to try to push the pain away. Harry's gaze returned to the screen. The Harry on screen seemed to be having a few words with the other boy before turning his attention to the camera. The older boy spoke first, his voice rather grim.

"Harry," he said firmly, seeming to look directly into Harry's eyes, "WAKE UP."

Without warning, Harry felt a strong jerk originating just behind his navel, and strong winds buffeted his face. The world around him lengthened until it was just a long blur, punctuated by pulses of white light. He tried to scream but no sound could be heard, as something pulled him (for that was surely the sensation he felt) inexorably towards a destination he could not begin to fathom. And then, after what seemed an eternity, it stopped, and he was dumped unceremoniously onto a hard wooden floor. Harry's breath came in ragged gasps, but he found that his hearing had not returned. All was silent as he rolled over, only to see a flash of light that hit him in the stomach. Horrifyingly and completely against his will, his body became completely rigid, his legs snapping together and arms slapping into place at his sides. All he could move were his eyes, and they stared fearfully up at the two men that towered over him. He'd been lured into a trap.

Harry felt utterly stupid as he frantically considered what, if anything, he could do about the situation. He didn't have to think too hard about how he'd been kidnapped; some kind of magic had been used, and if that was true, these were wizards. As if to confirm his thought, one of them, a tall black man with a bald head, pointed a wand at him. Harry screwed his eyes shut, expecting some painful spell to hit him. Something did hit him, but instead of pain, he only felt slightly lighter, as if he'd suddenly dropped five pounds. His ears began working again and the return of sound was almost painful. Likewise, his arms and legs suddenly flailed out as control of his body returned to him. What was going on?

"Well don't just lay there, Harry. Get up." said a familiar voice. "We've got work to do."

Harry cautiously opened his eyes. The black man stood to the side, his arms crossed over his chest and a neutral expression on his face. Next to him, holding his hand out and wearing a very slight grin on his face, was the older boy from the video who'd told him to wake up. Harry tentatively grasped the hand, which the boy used to haul him to his feet.

"Steady, mate. First time with a portkey's hard enough when you know it's coming, much less when someone surprises you." he said, clapping Harry soundly on the shoulder. "Sorry 'bout that, by the way. We had to get you out of Little Whinging and we only had a small window of time to do it. Had no clue if it'd be you or one of _his_ men."

Harry stared at him. "You...you're Dave?"

"Yeah, that's me." he said, smiling ruefully. "And it looks like _he_ did a good job on you, if you're asking me that. We'll get it sorted out, though."

Harry nodded in the black man's direction. "Who is he? Someone I'm supposed to know?"

"Nah, this is Maurice. I'll explain everything, Harry, but first we've got to fix you up." Dave said, trying to lead him into an adjoining room. Harry held still, resisting the movement.

"Why should I trust you, Dave? You just kidnapped me." he asked bluntly.

"You know why, Harry, even if you can't explain it. It's the same reason you think there's some truth that I can give you." Dave replied. He shrugged his shoulders. "Anyway, you trusted me enough to get here, and since we haven't hurt you, I think you could give us the benefit of the doubt. Now are you coming?"

Harry frowned and sighed with resignation. "Since you put it that way..." He followed the chuckling Dave into the room, followed by the much taller Maurice. The room was rather nondescript. It appeared to be the sitting room of the house or flat he'd arrived at and, like the previous room, it had hardwood floors. A very plain sofa, small coffee table, and a television were ranged on opposite sides of the fireplace, and another door lead out the other side of the room. A plate, several open soft drink cans, and numerous food wrappings littered the coffee table. Dave motioned for Harry to sit, then nodded at Maurice, who drew out his wand.

"Alright, Harry, we shut off the tracking and listening charms that were on you, so now we need to see how bad the damage is in your head. Maurice here's something of an expert on memory manipulation and modification, and hopefully he can undo some of what _that man_ did to you."

"That man?" Harry asked, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck prickle slightly. "Who-"

"Later, Harry." Dave said, gesturing at the sofa. "I'll tell you whatever you don't remember later. Right now, we need to get you sorted out." He looked at the black man and nodded. "Do your thing, Mo."

Harry looked at the man's wand skeptically. "This isn't going to hurt, is it?"

"If you lucky, you juss be feelin' a bit o' pressha. Now sit back an' relax." Maurice said. His voice had the melodic lilt that reminded Harry of a Jamaican boy he'd known at St. Brute's. The man waved his wand in a large oval and whispered something. Harry felt a slight tingle on his skin before noticing that the man was staring straight at him, wand point at his face. Just as their eyes locked, the man said in a strong voice "_Legilimens!_"

He felt nothing at all, save for the jolt of amazement at seeing flashes of his own memories flowing together like a badly edited movie. It was somewhat like watching his life in rewind, only it was going at an almost sickeningly fast pace. Worse still was the fact that some of the flashes were simply gray fog, and it took only a few of them before Harry realized that these memories were causing the sharp jabs of pain in his skull. They came more and more frequently until it seemed that all he could see was gray and his head felt like it had split in two. With a scream of agony, Harry felt a strong surge of _power_ flow up through him and into his head, where the gray fog disappeared in an instant. His vision of the surrounding room returned abruptly, just in time to see Maurice being hurled backwards at the opposite wall.

"_Arresto Momentum!_" the wizard yelled quickly, but whether it did anything was unclear, as he slammed into the wall with a nasty thud.

Harry didn't think too long about the man's condition, as the pain in his head returned with a vengeance, sending him crashing to the ground and lying in a fetal position, clutching his skull. He vaguely felt someone roll him over onto his back and lift him up before putting a cup to his lips and forcing him to drink a cool, thick liquid. Miraculously, as soon as the first mouthful reached his stomach, he could feel his splitting headache begin to wane. Within minutes it had become a dull and manageable throb.

He sat up with a wince and opened his eyes to see Dave and Maurice bickering with each other.

"...'ell are you playin' at? You said it be simple mem'ry modification, not dis shit!" Maurice snarled.

"And I thought you were supposed to be the best in Kingston! I'm paying you to fix his memories, not scramble his brain!" Dave shot back.

"Yeah? Well it be nice if you tol' me ev'ryting up front, den I woulda tol' ya to go ta hell!"

"I fucking told you what you needed to know!"

"NO! No, you damn well did'n!" Maurice shouted, punching the wall in anger. "Firs' of all, 'im ain't been Obliviated like you said. Secon', ooh-ever work 'im over was a real pro an' strong as 'ell. T'ird, a bit o' warnin' about 'is mental defenses woulda been 'elpful."

Dave's retort stopped halfway out his mouth and a puzzled look came over his face. "Wait, what do you mean he wasn't Obliviated?"

The black man's neutral expression had become guarded, and Harry saw that his wand was out but not quite pointed at him. "Mem'ry blocks an' pain triggahs, ol' school stuff, straight outta de old Obliviator's field manual. Ooh-ever put dem up is good, an' dey've got some real powah too, but dey ain't up on de new techniques. _I_ couldn'ta made those blocks. I doubt I could even break dem, not wit'out hurting m'self and de boy."

"Then what fucking good are you?" Harry snarled accusingly. Maurice only frowned, while Dave's eyebrows raised at Harry's outburst. "All you've done so far is split my fucking head open!"

"If it was juss Obliviation, it would've only 'urt a li'l bit for me ta reconstruct whatever mem'ries weren't completely lost. Ooh-ever did dis was smart enough to make deh triggahs respond to legilimency." Maurice responded tightly. "An' I nevah said I couldn't deal with de blocks. I'm juss wond'ring why I should stick aroun' an' bother."

"Because I paid you, you fucking twat!"

"Don't gimme dat! I tol' you to be up front wit' me. Now, you obviously in some deep shit, an' I wanna know 'ow deep de shit is b'fore I decide whet'er ta step in it meself." He dropped onto the sofa, completely calm. "Don' wanna tell me? Dat's fine. You can 'ave yer gold back an' I'll be on me way. But firs', ask ya'self if you think you can fin' anot'er wizard wit' my skills."

Dave looked at him calculatingly while Harry simply glared at him. "All right, Maurice, I'll let you in on what's going on, but I need reassurance that this isn't going beyond this room." said Dave.

"What you take me for, mon? You t'ink I can't 'old me tongue, wit' de line o' work I'm in?"

"I don't care. Swear on your magic, or you can walk." said Dave. "Stay, and I'll double the gold."

"Alrigh'." Maurice said, pulling out his wand and pointing it at his heart. "I swear on me magic dat I'll not reveal any secrets dat are tol' to me in dis room unless given pahmission by dose what reveal secrets to me."

There was a slight glow on his chest and he winced slightly. "Dere, satisfied? Now what de fuck's goin' on? Ooh're ya running from? I'll assume it's ooh-eva's been watching de boy."

"Stop calling me 'the boy' like I'm not here, you fucking Rasta." Harry growled. Maurice raised an eyebrow at him, seeming almost amused.

"Easy now, Harry." warned Dave. He looked at the black man a moment, his arms folded across his chest. "The man who did this to Harry is a powerful wizard. He's supposed to be the best alive, not even counting the clout he has here in Britain. About a month ago, Harry and I had some trouble with his relatives, and this wizard came around, obliviating everyone who had anything to do with either of us. We made a run for it, but he and his men caught up with us and captured Harry. They tampered with Harry's memory and took him back to be with his relatives. I managed to escape and have been laying low since then, trying to get to Harry."

"Dat's fascinatin', really. You'll 'ave ta tell me de full story one day." Maurice said impatiently. "But ya still 'aven't told me ooh dis wizard is."

"Dumbledore. His name is Albus Dumbledore."

Harry gasped loudly. He recognized this name instantly, having seen it on the letter from Hogwarts. More importantly, Hagrid had mentioned Dumbledore several times, particularly in regards to who had decided to leave him with the Dursleys. Hagrid had said that Dumbledore was a great man, and with all of the titles to the man's name (including Headmaster of Hogwarts), Harry was inclined to believe them. So why would this man have kidnapped and brainwashed him?

"Jesus Christ, mon! De mon what did dis, dat you runnin' from, is Albus fuckin' Dumbledore! De mos' powaful wizard in de world?" Maurice snapped. "What'd you two do, den, to make 'im come after you?"

"Magic, and lots of it." said Dave. "At the beginning of the summer, Harry here almost killed two people. Probably would've if I hadn't told him to stop."

Harry's eyes widened with shock. "I...I almost killed someone. Who?"

"Your uncle and your other aunt, Marge."

"Huh. Figures. Those shit stains've had it coming all my life." Harry snorted, a small smirk crossing his face before being replaced by a look of confusion. "But I only ever did magic on accident before I found out about Hogwarts."

"I was there, Harry. I saw you do it with my own eyes." said Dave, sounding slightly haunted. "If even knew half as much about magic like I do now, I'd've thought it was impossible. You were starved down there, nearly dead. You shouldn't've had the power to rip your uncle apart like that."

Maurice cast a shrewd look over them. "An' dey didn' get you wit' de Trace?" he asked. At their questioning looks, he continued. "De Trace. You know, it's 'ow de Ministry tracks unda-age wizardry. You get de Trace when you get yer wand."

"Harry did it all without a wand." Dave shrugged. "What he did to you, it was nothing compared to how badly he fucked them up."

The black man's eyebrows raised in shock. "I see. Dis certainly changes t'ings a bit, but dey make a bit more sense. It's obvious dey want you for your power, 'Arry. God's sake, you're only eleven an' you can t'row me out o' your 'ead on instinct. If you did somet'in' like dat when you was near starved to death, when your magic was at its lowest..."

Harry shook his head stubbornly. "But they had me, right? Why let me go later?"

"T'ink about it, boy! Dis is Dumbledore, an' I ain't nevah hear 'bout him doin' nothin' dis illegal dis openly. 'E's afraid o' what you might become wit' all dat power, mark me." said Maurice. "Men like Dumbledore, dey want to mold you into what dey t'ink is best. 'im not gonna tell you what to do, 'im just gonna make t'ings so only t'ing dat makes sense to you is to do what 'e wants. Whatevah it is, 'im made sure you goin' to 'Ogwarts, where 'e'll 'ave all de power, an' 'e prob'ly made de mem'ry blocks to keep you from runnin' away again."

Dave and Harry nodded. "That still doesn't explain why he didn't obliviate Harry."

"True, dere is dat. I nevah t'ought a wizard like Dumbledore'd be so sloppy."

"He couldn't." Harry suddenly had an epiphany, and as much as it hurt his head, he managed to blurt this out. "He...he could't do it."

"So I guess that man does have a conscience then." Dave said wryly, but Harry wasn't in a joking mood.

"No, I mean he literally couldn't." Harry said with a gasp as a sharp pain went through his head. "I must've done something to protect myself."

"Yeah, well I know you tried..."

Maurice waved away Dave's objections. "No, de boy...'Arry is right. 'E threw me out, an' I'm no slouch wit' de Mind Arts. You said 'e was doin' even more powerful stuff when 'e was at 'is lowest, prob'ly on instinct. Dat must've saved you from obliviation; your magic was protectin' you."

"So I've still got the memories, but they're stuck behind memory blocks you can't break?" Harry said with a sigh.

"Right. But if you've got de power to keep Dumbledore from erasin' your mem'ries, you've got de power to break de blocks. You juss need someone to show you."

"Someone like you?" Dave said, quirking an eyebrow up. "Weren't you about to tell us to go to hell for getting you involved?"

"I was t'inking somet'ing like dat, but me ol' lady, she always say I'm soft-hearted." Maurice said with a chuckle. "Besides, Dumbledore ain't de only one dat'd jump at de chance to work wit' a student wit' dat kind o' power. 'specially if dat student is De-Boy-Ooh-Lived."

Both Harry and Dave looked stunned. Until that point, the black man hadn't given any indication that he'd recognized Harry. Dave didn't stay stunned for more than a moment, though. Faster than Harry had ever seen him move, he'd whipped out a silver handgun. In two steps he had shoved the much larger man against the wall and pressed barrel of the gun to his temple. "Who are you working for? Answer me now, or your brain'll be across the room!" he snarled.

"I'm working for you, mon." the man said, raising his hands but looking completely unafraid. "I may be juss off de boat from Jamaica, but I'm not stupid. We 'eard plenty about de famous 'Arry Potter wit' de lightnin' bolt scar."

"Why didn't you say anything?"

The man shrugged. "In dis bus'ness, you don' be askin' too many questions. Besides, I figured you'd be tellin' me one way or de other. An' now dat you 'ave, I don't aim to be turnin' you in. You pay well an' you ain't asked for too much. I give you my word when you took me on, David, an' I keep my word."

Dave gave him a hard, searching look, but nodded. He released the gun's hammer and stepped back, smoothly replacing the pistol in the band of his jeans. Looking back and forth at the two men, Harry cleared his throat.

"All right, so now what happens?" he asked quietly.

"We run, Harry. It's the only option. We'll take all the money from your vault and just disappear. We'll never set foot in this country again."

"No. Hell no, I'm not letting that old fucker get away with this."

"Dumbledore's too strong and you know it, Harry."

"Aye, we stick aroun' an' Dumbledore's bound to catch us, even wit' all de tricks in me bag." agreed Maurice.

Harry scowled angrily. "Fine. We'll run for now, at least until we're ready to face the bastard on our terms." Harry said darkly. "So do we leave now? I've got my wand already."

Dave shook his head. "For now we get you back to Little Whinging and let Dumbledore keep thinking everything is fine while we work out trying to get you out of there permanently. Last thing we need is to alert the old man to what's going on."

"Dat's not a good idea, sendin' 'Arry back. If I'd known it was Dumbledore, I'd've not obliviated de five men dat were trailin' you. Dumbledore'll sniff dat out real quick, an' den 'e'll come 'round an' notice de portkey traces." Maurice shook his head. "No, we best be goin' to ground soon, today even."

Dave chewed his lip pensively. "I don't know. This is too soon. All the arrangements haven't been made."

"I say we go tonight." said Harry. "I don't want there to be any chance for that old fuck getting his hands on me again."

"I'm not letting that happen to you, Harry, but we've got to be careful and make sure everything's right. We can't afford to bollocks this up. Dumbledore found us last time."

"Don't worry 'bout dat, mon. I know some places 'ere an' dere where owls won' find you an' detection spells don' work." added Maurice. "We can work on bettah protection once we get dere."

Dave looked at them and nodded reluctantly. "Okay, let's do it. He's gonna be on us like last time, Harry."

"Not if we give him a little fake out. It'll give us time to tie up some loose ends." Harry smirked.

"What loose ends?"

"A couple back in Little Whinging, if you know what I mean." He replied, a menacing edge on his voice. For the first time since he'd arrived, Dave saw a shadow of his friend's real personality showing through the persona that'd been forced on him. He grinned.

"Yeah? What've you got in mind?"

"Well," Harry replied, looking thoughtfully at his co-conspirators, "we'll need a spell to make a person look like someone else..."

-------------------------------

A middle-aged, non-descript man stood from his desk and stretched carefully, surreptitiously keeping an eye on the raven-haired boy in the overly-large clothes headed for the library exit. A wave of his wand (out of the view of the muggles, of course) vanished the books and papers, and after a moment he, too, exited the library. Once outside he made a small movement with his hand before disillusioning himself and setting off after the boy. As he followed, he could make out the tell-tale signs of the rest of his surveillance team shifting position to keep Harry in their sight. The boy didn't notice any of them, as he expected, and within a half hour they were back at Number 4 Privet Drive. He watched the boy sneak into the house, then moved to a fall back position across the street. There, he conferred with the rest of his team before penning a letter to Albus Dumbledore.

_**Headmaster,**_

_**Situation is normal. The client deviated from normal schedule this afternoon. We accompanied to library, where client read for several hours. No other contact was made. Client returned home without incident. We remain hidden. Expect next report at regular schedule.**_

_**Gray**_

He tied the letter to a small owl and sent it flapping away. With a sigh, he leaned back into his makeshift shelter in a large shrub, settling in for a long and boring night. It had been two or three weeks they'd been on this detail, and if the job hadn't paid so well he'd probably have quit long ago. Men of their talents rarely took such cushy jobs as trailing a person, but none of the men could turn down that much gold. That and the knowledge that it would be over within a week made it bearable, but only just so. The Boy-Who-Lived wasn't going anywhere, if the previous weeks were any indication, and Gray couldn't help but wished that something would happen to break the monotony. By the same time the next evening, when the boy's aunt and cousin rushed from the house in almost a panic, he would note it but choose not to send an update; after all, he didn't see Harry Potter with them, and they weren't payed to keep tabs on his relatives. He would regret this decision three days later, when he discovered that no one had been in the house the entire time.

--------------------------------

Marge Dursley was shaking again. It wasn't quite as gentle as shivering, and it definitely wasn't because she felt cold. Ever since she'd awakened from her coma, these spells of shaking had periodically assaulted her body, and for all their tests, the doctors could not determine why. The woman herself couldn't shed any light on the situation, as she had no idea herself and, if she had, she couldn't tell them anyway. For days she'd been awake and cognizant, but speech still failed her. And aside from shaking, breathing, and the small movement of her right hand, she was effectively paralyzed. Her senses, though, were still quite active. Phantom pains plagued her and itching that could not be scratched threatened to drive her mad.

She pressed the call button in her right hand, a signal for the nurses to come and administer a dose of a very strong muscle relaxant. It didn't make the shakes go away completely, but it did make them somewhat bearable. She waited in pained silence, wishing her body would cooperate and damning the nurses for taking so long to respond to her call. Minutes passed, but despite many more button presses, no one came. She wondered frantically if they'd gone for a late night smoke break and left her to her own personal hell.

And then Marge started as a small form stepped slowly into the doorway of the room. She did not even notice that her shaking had suddenly stopped and that she could suddenly control her own body. She turned her head to see who it was, and the sight of him made her blood run cold and her breath catch in her throat. The diminutive boy stood in the doorway staring at her from behind a pair of taped up glasses, his green eyes full of hate and malice, his brow furrowed and mouth twisted into an ugly leer. The air seemed thick and oppressive, swirling about him as if he were a white flame radiating intense heat. He looked every bit like the demon that had plagued her nightmares, who seemed to delight in her suffering. Marge wanted to scream, to jump out of the bed and run, but fear secured her to the bed as tightly as steel chains. Little Harry Potter had come for her.

With a series of small pops, every light in the room went out. Even the light from outside the window seemed to fade. Harry cast a long, ominous shadow into the room, his face dark except for the impossibly bright green eyes that stared into her own. By now tears were streaming down her face, still her voice would not come to raise an alarm. He walked slowly, deliberately into the room, and each step he took towards her caused Marge's heart to race painfully. Behind him, the door closed of its own accord. It slammed with a disturbing finality, plunging the room into complete darkness.

"Oh God, please..." she whimpered fearfully into the dead silence. After a few moments, a chilling voice whispered into her ear.

"God's not here to save you."

To be continued...

**Authors Notes**

Another chapter in the hole and it only took, what, six months? Pretty sad, huh? Consider this: 75 of this chapter has been finished since about August. This is a terrible update rate.

On the upside, I've done a lot of thinking about where I want this story to go, and I've finally nailed down many of the main story beats. I think the story is going to turn out a lot differently than any of you think it will. There are a good number of twists and plenty more hardened Harry antics. This Harry is getting ready to shake up the world. The question is whether the world is ready for him.

As always, I'd appreciate a review letting me know what you think. Thanks for reading and keep on the lookout for chapter 4.


	4. David's Story

**Hooligan**

**  
Chapter 4 : David's Story**

"What the hell have I gotten myself into?" I ask myself. Tenth time this morning, and it's still an hour until noon. I must be having a good day.

I'm beginning to forget what a normal life is supposed to feel like. I'm not sure whether I should be happy or not about it. I mean, wasn't I just saying how bored I was going to be going to Stonewall High for my gap year? Well this isn't boring, is it? It's fucking dangerous is what it is. No magic at all and here I am strolling through wizard central like I own the damn place. But that's the trick, ain't it? No one bothers you if you look like you're supposed to be there. And the wizards, shit, they make it almost a cakewalk. Nick a wallet here or there out in the real world, change it to galleons, visit a second hand robe shop and voila! You look just like them, so long as you don't gawk at all the mad shit that passes for normal around here. You do that, keep your head down, fade into the background, and you learn how the people work. And when you've figured that how people work, you learn how to work the people.

I've spent most of my life learning how to do what I do. When I was younger, I idolized Sherlock Holmes, wanted to be the next great detective. Learning his skills on my own entertained me for a while, but like many things in my life, it soon bored me. What good was a ten year old wannabe Holmes in the stuffy, nauseating conformity and regularity of Little Whinging? There were no crimes to foil and mysteries to solve. Suburban life is an IQ destroying, soul-crushing existence. I wanted out.

I wanted to learn things that were darker, more visceral, more exciting. I wanted to get down and dirty and learn about what goes on outside of polite society. So I did what Sherlock Holmes did, in my own way. I applied myself to studying and understanding the methods of crime and the people that dedicated their lives to it. The more I learned, the more that being Moriarty, not Holmes, appealed to me.

Little Whinging was my laboratory and my proving ground, at least at first. Street gangs didn't exist in Little Whinging until I started them. There was no vandalism or theft, no homes being broken into, no confidence schemes. The constables had it easy before I made my turn, but they, too, were just part of my learning process. Even getting sent to St. Brutes was a calculated move on my part. Sure, I could've copped to a smaller sentence by selling out Harry, like the other blokes I ran with did, but I wanted to go to the place where the worst of the worst were. After all, everyone knows you go to prison to become a better criminal.

By the time I'd been sent to St. Brute's, I could've taken my A-Levels, and a year of slumming and gang fighting had toughened me up a bit. I started at that hellhole just before I turned twelve. Two years later, only a few true nutters were stupid enough to get in my way. Four years later, I basically ran the school from the shadows while an idiot Scot strutted around like some toothless old lion, thinking he was in charge and taking all the heat for me.

For most of that time, I never gave Harry, who showed up a couple years after I did, much thought. Sure, we went at it a few times when he'd crossed me. I was even a little impressed; for such a young kid, he could be a real savage when threatened, and he didn't back down from anyone. One of the nutters I mentioned? Yeah, he was one of them. At St. Brutes, they either got crippled or they hurt people so badly that they made you think twice about fucking around with them. Harry was one of the ones that lasted, who got a reputation that eventually kept people from marking him as an easy target. You put enough people in the infirmary and have no apparent care for your own safety, and no one will give you much shit.

That said, it didn't stop me from having a go at Harry for disrespecting me in front of our dorm mates. Respect is everything when you're in a pack of wolves, and disrespect is a challenge. I started wailing on him when I caught him in the loo. And then he screamed like a mad man, and next thing I know I'm laying in a pool of my own blood, my chest feeling like it was on fire. I distinctly remember feeling my heart slow down, the blood stopping in my veins. I think I died there on those dirty tiles, looking up into the blazing green eyes of a stone cold killer whose face was contorted in a mask of pure rage and hate. I think for a few moments I even felt at peace, before I just let go...

And then I felt fire in my chest again, and my heart was beating furiously, my head becoming clearer with every stroke. I opened my eyes and saw Harry leaning over me, his eyes closed, and he was chanting something. His hands hovered over me, and they were glowing. It must've been the situation and the last of the fuzziness in my head, but it became clear to me, right then, that Harry had just brought me back to life

I'm not religious, and I don't believe in God, but that day I learned the fear of God. I wasn't afraid of Harry; he'd already killed me, after all. No, I was in awe of this _power _and its unlimited possibilities. I honestly felt excited, even a bit greedy. But at the same time, I felt an unfamiliar emotion: concern. Harry wasn't totally in control of his power, this much I could see. Worse, I knew there would be only problems for him in the future. Here was a power that could kill and bring me back to life at the hands of a boy with unnatural reservoirs of anger and hate and rage. He would destroy himself.

I made a vow, right then, to help Harry get a hold on himself and his power. Yes, for selfish reasons, I won't deny that, but also because something told me that he needed help, my help specifically. Like I was put there in that place and time to guide him. I said as much to him, and even though I knew he was skeptical (as he should've been), Harry seemed surprised and even pleased. he'd never had a friend, and like almost everyone else at St. Brute's, never had someone that cared about him.

We became as close as brothers, almost overnight. It's not as unlikely as you'd think. Harry came from a shit family that didn't give a damn about him, just like ninety-nine percent of the people at St. Brute's. It made them angry and prone to lashing out. But it also made it possible for strong bonds to form, once you got past the hardened front everyone put up. For as many fights went on at the school, just as many bonds of brotherhood were formed, bonds that were forged through mutual hardship and understanding and entailed almost fanatical loyalty.

Things changed after that, I made sure of it. I helped Harry get what he wanted. Our dorm formed up a gang, and with my support he suddenly had friends and acceptance and not a small amount of clout. I helped him focus and learn to make things happen with his power. I taught him many of the things that I'd learned about dealing with people and getting what you want out of them. I shared my goals in life with him and got him thinking about what he wanted out of life. What he wanted seemed to be revenge. I was cool with that. Revenge, you see, is my specialty.

It went off without a hitch, our plan, at first. Harry's fat uncle went to jail, his cousin went into a wheelchair, and his aunt went into submission. But we didn't count on outside interference, or that fat fuck getting out of jail. Harry almost died of torture and starvation. That was my fault, letting it get to that point. I almost died again trying to save him, but now I know that Harry saved me again. And then he turned his attention to his captors, and for the first time in almost a year, I saw glimpses of Death again on Harry's face. I felt that fear again, even as I stopped him from completely annihilating them, and I knew then that Harry was just as, if not more dangerous as he had been the night he'd killed me.

I covered things up pretty well before the fuzz came, but not well enough. A few days afterwards, an old wizard came to the hospital, waving his wand around and obliviating people left and right. I had the presence of mind to get the hell out of there and take Harry with me. And for almost three weeks now, we've been in London, on the run from The Man With The Wand and his goons. The last week, though, things have been calm, even with us finding out that Harry, himself, is a wizard. In fact, until a few days ago, I hadn't seen hide nor hair of a wizard, despite seeing glimpses of them regularly the weeks before. The reason for that was pretty simple.

Our shitty little hotel room was across the street from the largest concentration of wizards and magic in London.

Getting into Diagon Alley took a little effort. Most wizards don't have to walk to the Leaky Cauldron to get into Diagon Alley, so the fact that I spotted one, all the way at the end of the row of buildings that made up the muggle front of the Alley, was pure luck. The fact that I was so concentrated on this man in loud orange robes is probably what made it possible for me to see the Leaky Cauldron and enter without any problems. From there...well, like I said, act like you're supposed to be there, even if you look like you shouldn't.

These last three days, I've barely seen Harry. I've kept myself busy learning everything I can about the wizarding world. I've been using that knowledge to exploit it and the muggle world. A plan had quickly formed in my mind the moment I'd stepped foot in Diagon Alley, one that will get us away and secure from the Man With The Wand. I've wanted to bring Harry into the plan as well, but it's too dangerous. He's a famous person here, too famous to pass anonymously like I do. To make things worse, the Man With The Wand is a famous and influential wizard named Albus Dumbledore. Bringing Harry into this world would be essentially handing him over. No, when I've gathered all my resources and we can get the hell away from Britain, then I can tell him what's been going on, and we can see about getting him trained up.

The hours always fly by on these trips into the Alley. Hours tick by as I pore through as many books as possible at Flourish and Blotts, adding to my grow store of magical knowledge. After that, on to Gringott's, the wizard bank. The goblins have gotten used to changing pounds to galleons for me, and they whisk me in and out quickly. Now, I barely blink at the little creatures. I think I can even admire the cunning and deviousness they direct towards their greed.

After the bank, I leave the bright light of the high street and enter the wizarding world's underbelly, Knockturn Alley. I said before that I'd been preparing for this all my life, and here's the proof. This is my element, where I can work best. Wand or none, no one will fuck with you if you imply violence in your very movement. My walk here promises it, and the pair of black Glocks under my robes guarantee it. Despite menacing and speculative glances at me, no one tries anything. I make my way to the first of many shops to purchase items that will come in very, very useful back in the muggle world.

It's dark, even in Diagon Alley, when I finally go back to the real world. Most of my money is gone, but a magically expanded pouch holds many interesting items which are going to help me relieve some drug dealers and gun runners of their hard earned cash and product. I'd considered robbing banks at first, but a cursory glance at a magical law book told me that aurors, the magical police, are always watching for signs of magical crime in the muggle world. No, I hit people who aren't going to report their losses. It's much less dangerous.

Halfway to the hotel, I spot a witch tailing me. They're stupidly inept at blending in, especially when they step out of their fairytale world and into the real one. I haven't been in their world more than a few days and I can see that. This bird probably thinks she's good at it, and she is, for a wizard. At least she's not wearing anything stupid like flippers or a petticoat. She's been waiting for me a bit, which means she must've seen me go into the Leaky Cauldron earlier.

A couple streets down, I turn into a narrow alley and duck behind a large bin, then stomp on the pavement like I'm running. Like an idiot, she comes flying into the alley to give chase, only seeing me raise up at the last minute. I swing a broken metal chair and it dents as it slams into her chest and face, She almost does a back flip from the force, her wand clattering to the ground next to her crumpled body. She's bleeding from the head, but I'm not too worried. She's a witch, she should be able to handle it. If not, sucks to be her. I'm not in the habit of showing mercy for the weak.

I strip her, literally, of everything she's got. Wand, money bag, jewelry, boots, robes. She's completely naked and resting uncomfortably in the dumpster in a couple minutes, a new best time that I'm proud of. I've had a lot of practice at this sort of thing, especially lately. She'll be out of action for hours. If I'm lucky, she'll wake up in the back of a lorry full of rubbish on the way to the countryside. Taking one last good look (I am human, after all), I exit the alley at the opposite end, making sure no one else is following me.

My feeling of security, what little of it I had, doesn't last long. Something feels wrong as I get closer to the hotel, like my eyes are going unfocused for split seconds as I glance around, and a snippet of a book I'd read days ago comes to mind: _The astute observer can, without a wand, detect notice-me-not and concealment charms by odd variations in the senses which are the result of the mind wrongly interpreting what the body perceives._ It takes only a moment for the realization to click into place, and I stop abruptly.

One, two...three blurs in my eyes. Three wizards laying in wait, and the way they're situated indicates that they don't know where exactly we're living. The fact that they're here, though, tells me that I've been a fucking idiot these last few days. The witch had been waiting for me, and suddenly there are three wizards under concealment charms staking out the street near our hotel? I don't believe in coincidences. The witch must've known to look for me, and so do these three. I've been leading them almost to our doorstep every time, and if I hadn't been out robbing people before going back to the hotel, we'd have been caught days ago.

No time for subtlety or stealth. I turn down the nearest alley and make a mad dash to the end. I've got to get in the back entrance, got to get Harry out of there. Luck isn't on my side tonight, otherwise there wouldn't be three more blurs covering the back street. The fire escapes are a bust too, since there are at least a couple of blurs at the roof level. I'm feeling the beginning of panic, and I'm forced to sit next to a rubbish bin and breath deeply to get myself together. The aborted panic attack saves me, though, as footsteps pound down the alley after me. I take a quick glance and see two wizards, their concealment charms breaking down as they move. By now, I'm calm and I've got my game face on. These guys are no amateurs, but I've got surprise on my side.

My two Glocks silently slip from the pouch. These aren't standard issue firearms, and that much is apparent when, as I pull back the slides to chamber the first rounds, not a sound is made. The permanent silencing charms had cost a quarter of my galleons, but they were about to prove their worth. Taking aim at the half hidden wizards, I begin emptying the clips, and quickly see a flaw in my plan as the bullets ricochet off shield charms that are probably built into their robes. The crack of the bullets on the clear blue shields gives me away, but I don't let up, and eventually the shields fail. One of the wizards eats a bullet just as a spell leaves his wand, and I'm forced to press myself against the wall to avoid it. The remaining wizard curses and follows the spell with one of his own. The bin is yanked to the side and slammed into the opposite building, but I ignore it in favor of dumping the rest of the clips in his direction. Not that it does any good, since he's cast another shield charm. This is taking too long, and the loud bang from the bin probably has the rest of the spooks running right towards us. I need to get closer and take his wand out of the equation.

Fate is smiling on me, because this guy idiotically summons the Glocks, which I've got in a death grip. I'm suddenly flying through the air straight for him, guns still blazing, and one bullet seems to punch through and tag his right shoulder. It's enough to shatter the shield and ruin his aim, sending a yellow curse just right of me. I win the momentum battle as we collide. He's beneath me and I make sure he stays there, crushing three of his ribs with a knee and cracking the wrist on his right hand with one of the pistol. He screams in pain and flails at me, but I shut him up with a pistol whip to the temple. I can't even take the time to rob or question him, not if I want to get away. I have a good idea about who sent him anyway. I grab his wand as I get up and barely bother to look as I put two bullets in his face. That should keep them a while.

Ducking into the narrow space between two buildings, I melt into the shadows just in time. I've made my escape, but Harry's lost to me now, there's no doubt about that. I really should just leave him to his fate, especially now that I've got access to the power he's got. It's the logical thing to do. I know in my heart, though, that I can't abandon him. Against all odds, I've got to save him. My mind is racing, trying to figure out just how the hell I'm going to do that.

The next few days pass in a blur. I get barely three hours of sleep, trying to stay moving while I come up with a plan to rescue Harry. I'm shut out of the wizarding world during this time, which probably saves my sanity. Insomnia mixes very badly with extreme paranoia. It doesn't help that I get to witness the Man himself take Harry away. It's a little difficult, but with proper disguise I manage to slip into the building undetected and break into the room next door. I can't do anything to help, not if I want to stay in the clear, but Dumbledore's spiel, before and after he knocks Harry out, gives me some information to work with. I know what he's done and where he's taking Harry, and that he's not given up on looking for me. Neither, for that matter, have his mercs, who aren't too happy that I killed their friends. If they're lucky, they'll never see me again. Killing, I found out, isn't as hard as I thought it'd be.

I know I'll need money and lots of it if I'm going to do this, though, because I can't run up against Dumbledore's lackeys again by myself. I triple my robberies, getting more and more daring and desperate with each one. The cash influx helps, but wizards don't take pounds. I've got to find a way back into wizarding world that doesn't go through Diagon Alley. I need to find a wizard fireplace.

It's absurdly easy to find and doesn't require a wizard's help at all, you just have to know where to look. I take the Underground to King's Cross and head straight for Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. Of course, it's too early for the barrier to be working, at least according to a book I read, but I'm pretty confident in my deduction. King's Cross has had a blocked off platform at the end of the station for as long as anyone can remember, and my suspicions are confirmed when I get the sudden urge to go to another platform. I figured out how to get past notice-me-not and muggle-repelling charms in my first trips to Diagon Alley, so getting onto the platform is simple.

Just before the wrought iron arch, I find what I knew had to be there: a working, Floo connected fireplace, complete with a barrel of Floo powder. A fire ignites in it automatically when I approach, which is a huge relief. I didn't fancy starting a fire in the damn thing. A handful of powder later and I'm spinning out of a fire in Knockturn Alley. Now that I'm back, I've got a lot of work to do.

The Alley becomes my new home, and I only venture out to stage my robberies. I'm in the least likely place anyone would look for a muggle, and since I don't act like a muggle, no one can rat me out either. By now, though, I know that I need to hire a freelancer or two, and soon. Fleecing drug and gun runners is profitable, but it's getting more and more dangerous, even with my magical toys. Besides, I've already got my eye towards other ventures in both worlds, and I'll need someone to help me set them up. Not to mention breaking out Harry and undoing the damage Dumbledore's done. It's time to start recruiting.

Finding a wizard with questionable morals and looking to earn a little gold isn't exactly hard to do in Knockturn Alley. Finding one with some real skill or power, while keeping shady wizards from hexing you for your money, is the trick. As the week passes, I leave a few bodies in the Alley, a warning to any other low lifes thinking I'm a walking cash machine. It's also a message to the serious hired wands that I mean business. Sometimes, that kind of respect is just as effective as the promise of a pile of money.

Maurice King and I find each other almost by accident, and by accident I mean that the only thing that keeps us from killing each other is the fact that other people are trying to kill us first. The meeting between us was set up by a connected info broker by the name of Haight. I don't have any reason to trust the man, but I'm getting desperate. We meet in a smoky little corner pub near the end of the Alley. I don't like the feel of the place.

Maurice is a Jamaican warlock with a thick West Indian accent. He has "special skills" and comes highly recommended, with the understanding that he'd recently been released from prison. In other words, he's a risk magnet, but worth hiring. According to the man himself, he's the best mind mage in Kingston. This is what I'm looking for, but I pretend like I don't care, instead asking about his skills with curses and hexes in a way that sounds like I'm not impressed. He gets angry when I low ball him during our haggling, especially when I mention that we'd be robbing muggles. I realize why he's so angry after he pulls his wand on me. He recognizes my Glocks immediately, and no wizard I've ever met has thus far. Apparently robbing muggles isn't just an insult to his integrity, and I'd put a hundred galleons on his prison sentence being related to muggle larceny.

Seconds away from mutually assured destruction, five dangerous looking wizards crash our meeting, all flinging spells that neither of us want any part of. We scramble for cover, as does everyone else in the room. A table flips itself over and covers me, and I barely think about it as I slide behind a wall. The Glocks send silent killers across the room, but these blokes are ready with full shield spells. I duck back as a rainbow of spells rain down on me. I'm trapped, but not for long. Across the way, Maurice is shooting spells as well, but they don't seem to do anything, at least not until two of the wizards start cursing their friends. The man casts a mean Unforgivable, apparently.

The distraction gives me the time I need. I come out blazing, unloading both clips into their backs. Adrenaline's got my aim off, but it's enough to put them out of action. The other two under the Imperius curse finish them off for me before turning on each other with cutting curses. I have to give the man credit for brutality and effectiveness. He asks, in his hard to understand accent, if I'm satisfied with his wand skills, and I can't find anything to disagree with. If his mind magics are on par with his Imperius curse, he's the man I'm looking for. I hire him on the spot, and when he asks what the job is, I tell him that the first thing we're going to do is take care of the man who set us up. Knockturn Alley is going to be less one very connected information broker tonight.

I take Maurice into confidence afterwards, at least with the main points. He knows that I'm putting together something big to rescue a friend, but I don't mention who that friend is or whom I'm rescuing him from. What keeps Maurice around, though, are my plans for the future, after Harry is rescued.

The robberies become easier with a partner. The money comes fast enough that we hire on more freelancers to pick up the slack. Besides the money, we have lots of guns and drugs to get rid of, but I even have plans for them. I'm making plans to get the guns to muggle dealers around the world, after a little magical processing that renders them untraceable, and without all the trouble that smuggling would pose. The drugs are a bigger deal; with a little magic, they'll become super drugs. With the right distribution, they'll throw the doors wide open on the drug trade in Britain.

Not that it's without trouble, of course. Organized crime in the muggle and wizarding worlds are sniffing the wind, trying to ferret us out, and the aurors are about a step behind them. I don't worry. We're building the foundation under the radar, and when we're finally ready to come out into the open, it'll be too late to stop us. First, though, Maurice and I have other business to attend to.

Two weeks after hiring on Maurice, I finally feel confident enough to go back to Little Whinging. It's not to see my parents, who should've written me off by now, but to see what's become of Harry. For some odd reason, the Man brought him back to live with the Dursleys. We aren't even sure that there's anything of the old Harry to save. Maurice explained to me that a powerful enough wizard could permanently alter memories, and with it the personality. I'm not sure how to take this news, which is horrible but also enticing. I know the old Harry almost better than he did himself. I know that there's a monster lurking in his heart and a monstrous power to match it. Letting him go will ensure that neither are ever brought to bare again. I'm establishing myself in the wizard and muggle worlds. I don't need him.

This weighs heavily on my mind as I canvass my old neighborhood. I go alone and am extra careful, especially after I spot several wizards surrounding the house. They're clearly on a stake out, and it doesn't take a genius to know they're following Harry, probably at Dumbledore's orders. The plan suddenly becomes a bit more tricky. I spend the next few days walking the streets in dozens of disguises, and I take special care to follow the one time that Harry actually leaves the house for more than just working in the garden.

He's nothing like he used to be. His hair's no longer shaved on the sides and his piercings are gone. Even his accent is gone, which I guess is a good thing. But the worst thing of all is that he carries himself like a timid door mouse. His cousin Dudley and some of the local boys make sport of chasing him down the street. For a moment, I think I see a flash of his old self, but he clutches his head as if someone had split it open. Something's wrong, I'm not sure what, but seeing this makes up my mind. Dumbledore isn't helping, he's just making Harry fester by turning him into the same toe-rag that he always hated. It's time to get him away from this suburban hell.

The plan is actually fairly simple. The watch wizards work in two twelve hour shifts of five men apiece. They've been watching Harry since immediately after he'd been taken, and with the lack of action, they're complacent. The shift changes often leave a gap, since most of the wizards are never on time. Staging the operation around a shift change is a given, but for insurance we're going to stun, obliviate, and add memories to the day shift. This means that we must find the wizards.

It turns out to be a very simple matter. We didn't leave empty-handed when we offed Haight, after all. As an information broker, he was unusually strong with mind magics, but Maurice tore through his mind like it was wet tissue paper, and his memories (along with bits of brain) were flowing out of his nose like water. Turns out Haight knew a bloke who knew a bloke who was a pimp, and whose ladies had been getting an earful from a couple of shifty wands about some cushy spying job on a muggle-born kid just outside of London. Capturing them is dead easy, and they lead us straight to the other three, who put up a considerably more difficult fight. Against two of their own, plus five of us, they fold before there are permanent injuries. Maurice outdoes himself, reshaping their memories and putting them under the Imperius. After that, we dose each with a befuddling beverage to give them the hazy aftereffects of a night of drinking and drop them at their respective homes or rooms.

The next morning, things proceed exactly as planned. Noon rolls around, but the night shift is nowhere to be seen. The morning shift is pissed off and distracted, leaving an opening for a message to Harry. I said before that I've been training my entire life for moments just like this. If he were real, Holmes would be proud, maybe even a bit jealous. I don't look like David Foster, I look like a fucking curry munching bank manager. I've been making the rounds in this same disguise over several days, so they pay me no mind. Harry answers the door, and the moment I see him, I feel better than I have in weeks. I feel relief, and a bit of disappointment to see that while he's still physically the same, mentally he's lost his edge. He's unsure, but I don't have time for unsure. I force my way into the house, holding him at gunpoint and hoping that Maurice's worries about implanted commands are baseless. I don't want to shoot Harry if I don't have to.

He reads my letter and signals that he buys my story. So far so good, though I can't believe he's so naive and trusting. We were just guessing about some of the things in the letter based on Maurice's knowledge of large scale memory manipulation, but he seems to accept all of them. I'm not sure what it means, except that I'm not going to have to chloroform him. Harry accepts the second note eagerly and I make my exit. I'm now on a tight schedule.

When I'm out of sight, I hop into a nearby car and zoom off towards the Little Whinging Library. There, it's a simple matter of reserving a media room, setting up the note, videotape, and headphones-turned-portkey, and leaving instructions at the front desk for a Mr. H. Potter. I speed all the way to the A24, ignoring the police who give chase just as I get to the road, and activate my own illegal portkey just as I dump the car off a bridge. A moment later, I'm in my Knockturn Alley flat, where Maurice is waiting. With a nod, he commences phase two of the plan.

The five mercenaries are assembled down on the street at a muggle corner cafe outside the Alley. The flat extends to both sides for just this type of occasion. Maurice waves his wand at them and commands them to go into a nearby alley. In my hand is a telephone, and on the other end is one of my muggle associates who has been waiting for Harry to arrive. He informs me when Harry begins watching the videotape, and I give a signal to Maurice. Outside, the five wizards apparate to the library on the Jamaican's command, and if our timing is right the portkey activation will be lost in the wake of five wizards popping into the same area at almost the same time. Thirty seconds later, Harry appears in a flash of light and lands in a heap on the floor, where he is promptly stunned by Maurice. Harry is back. Now comes the hard part.

Harry has always been full of surprises, not all of them good. The one we discover, though, is amazing even for the jaded Jamaican. He's powerful, more than I even imagined. He nearly breaks Maurice in half on a simple legilimency scan. Maurice almost bails right then, but I can't seriously let him go, not when he's this involved. I tell him everything after he gives a magical vow. And then we learn just how powerful Harry is. We learn that he is impossible to obliviate and that he unconsciously forced the most powerful wizard in the world to resort to crude memory tricks. Maurice sees potential, enough to offer to teach Harry. Things are beginning to come together.

Later that night, Harry, Maurice, and I leave the flat for good, all traces of us being there wiped clean. Using my memories, Maurice creates a portkey to the hospital in Surrey, which deposits us in the very same parking lot where we'd narrowly escaped Dumbledore weeks prior. For hours, Maurice had slowly rerouted most of Harry's memories, but even as we stalk into the hospital I see him shed the last vestiges of "Harry the toe-rag" and emerge as a newer, stronger Harry. Power radiates from him like heat from a furnace, fueled by his intense hatred and anger. Seeing him like this puts that same fear in my heart that I've always struggled to ignore. This isn't hooligan Harry, this is the Harry who'd nearly killed me, who'd nearly destroyed his relatives. This is Harry the Monster, and he's come to finish what he started.

It's ten minutes before the screaming finally dies down. Fat lot of good it did the old bitch, crying for help. No one heard a peep, thanks to the very strong notice-me-not charm emanating from a necklace I'm wearing. It cost a pretty penny and has to be recharged with magic every so often, but it's a damn sight better than the shitty charmed robes on those wizards in London. Maurice gives me an indecipherable look but says nothing. I'm pretty sure that I look green about the gills to him and feel embarrassed for showing weakness.

Harry exits the room looking a bloody mess, wearing an almost frightening look of satisfaction on his blood-speckled face. I ignore the instinctive clench of fear in my gut and give him slightly bored, questioning look. "Done then?" I ask. He nods, his face relaxing into a neutral expression. And like a candle being blown out, the Monster disappears

I glance up and down his body, noting the splashes of blood all over his clothes. "Did you have to be so messy?" I say, turning and walking towards the lift.

"No, I didn't have to." he admits, but he doesn't seem sorry in the least. "Don't worry, I set up everything like you said."

I nod and lead the way down the hall, trying not to think of what just happened. Just as the lift door closes, a nurse screams bloody murder. It's several years before we return to Surrey, bringing death with us.

**To Be Continued...**

Author's Notes:  
Another chapter down, and faster than the previous one. I'll try to keep this pace up. On a related note, if you've been waiting for an update on my other stories, I'll reiterate that I will return to them as my interest in the stories return. Currently, Hooligan is highest on my radar (followed closely by Brothers Strange). I devote a small amount of time to writing fan fiction as it is, so juggling three or four stories at once just isn't possible. I'd be willing to let another writer take over a Heart of A Warrior or Long Dark Night, so PM me if you're interested.

This chapter brings to a close the first part of this story, which I call "A History of Violence", and I'd like to think that the four installments live up to that title. Chapter five begins the second part of Hooligan, "Criminal Enterprise", which should run three chapters.

Shout out to the DarkLordPotter forums for reviewing the story. Those guys are some of the harshest critics you'll find for HP fan fiction, and their recommendations tend to be good. Hopefully I can get this story up to the quality they expect.

Finally, thanks to everyone that left a review. Even if you didn't, thanks for reading, hopefully it was worth your time. Until next time...


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